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THE 


WORKS 


OF 


LOR D oh peak nN, 


A New Edition. 


EDITED BY 


THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. 


COMPLETE IN FOUR VOLUMES. 


WITH ENGRAVINGS. 
VOL. 
PHILADELPHIA: 


GARE Y AND “ERA RT. 
1843. 


Wy 


CONTENTS. 


VOL. I. 

CHILDE HAROLD'S Ce Page, 
Preface : A 4 Ἢ ᾿ 3 ‘ : 3 1 
Tolanthe . A 1 σι... 7 
Canto lt ver 6 ¢ . ° . . ry . 9 
Canto I. 7 ; 5 : ἃ β 99 

Apyendix to Cane Il. ° . - . δ δ Psy 
Canto III. 2 δ : : 5 “ A 97 
Cute Lannea wee 197]-1145, RS Te ΘΟ ΣΝ SS 

Dedication to CantoTV. . is ἷ ‘ ὃ A A ἢ 137 

Historical Notes to Canto IV. ; é : Ε τ ᾿ 2... 195 

THE GIAOUR . dl μ Ἶ 3 > 4 : τ : 29 

THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS " Σ A = ° ; ss O19 
Canto I. 4 r : A ἢ : Ἢ 2 . “ ἃ 283 
CantolII. . 2 5 Σ ‘ Ῥ ὃ 4 4 ὃ ὃ . 296 

THE CORSAIR F A τ . - A A ᾿ ῃ ἐς 2 
Canto i ᾿ .Φ Φ . ο * t . σ΄ . . . 323 
Canto II, 3 ὸ Ἔ 3 3 : 4 . is 999 
Canto IIT. ‘ ὁ 5 ς é ἢ τ ‘ Ὰ ς a ood 

LARA . .Ψ .Ψ . . Φ ΓῚ e 8 Φ e . 373 
CantolI. ’. i 3 ἕ iy é fs ὺ ὲ i ἢ ἐς 7 
Canto If. F ‘ 4 y 5 ‘ 4 4 ~ 3 $91 

THE SIEGE OF CORINTH 3 _ J ᾿ ᾿ β ὸ . 409 

ῬΔΕΙΞΙΝΑ . . . Φ ν 4, . ΓῚ ° e 44] 

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON ᾿ ° 4 Ξ 5 ὃ ἈΝ 1.3) 

BEPPO Φ be . . . δ , « Φ Φ Φ ΓῚ 479 

MAZEPPA . e ° : ; : ᾧ 5 . “ . » 605 


a a δ i? 
a 2 Aw 4 [Ἔ] 


CHILDE HAROLD’S 


PILGRIMAGE. 


A ROMAUNT. 


L’univers est une espéce de livre, dont on n’a lu que la premiére page quand on 
n’a vu que son pays. J’enai feuillete un assez grand nombre, que j’ai trouvé 
également mauvaises. Cet examen ne m/’a point été infructueux. Je haissais ma 
patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j’ai vécu, 
m’ont réconcilié avec elle. Quand je n’aurais {τὸ d’autre bénéfice de mes voyages 
que celui-la, je n’en regretterais ni les frais ni les fatigues. 


Lr CosMopPOLITE,. 


VOL. Ill. —B. 


f 


“ον ΗΝ 


+ ne 


ues 


PREFACE 


(TO THE FIRST AND SECOND CANTOS.) 


Tue following poem was written, for the most part, amidst the 
scenes which it attempts to describe. It was begun in Albania ; 
and the parts relative to Spain and Portugal were composed from 
the author’s Suseyationstt Those countries. Thus much it may 
be necessary to state for the correctness of the descriptions. 
The scenes attempted to be sketched are in Spain, Portugal, 
Epirus, Acarnania, and Greece. ‘There, for the present, the poem 
stops: its reception will determine whether the author may ven- 
ture to conduct his readers to the capital of the Kast, through 
Ionia and Phrygia: these two cantos are merely experimental. 

A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of giving some 
connection to the piece ; which, however, makes no pretension to 
regularity. It has been suggested to me by friends, on whose 
opinions I set a high value, that in this fictitious character, 
* Childe Harold,” I may incur the suspicion of having intended 
some real personage: this I beg leave, once for all, to disclaim 
— Harold is the child of imagination, for the purpose I have 
stated. In some very trivial particulars, and those merely local, 
there might be grounds for such a notion ; but in the main points, 
I should hope, none whatever. 

It is almost superfluous to mention that the appellation 
** Childe,” as ““ Childe Waters,” * Childe Childers,” &c. is used 
as more consonant with the old structure of versification which I 
have adopted. The “Good Night,” in the beginning of the first 
canto, was suggested by ““ Lord Maxwell’s Good Night,” in the 
Border Minstrelsy, edited by Mr. Scott. 

With the different poems which have been published on Spanish 
subjects, taere may be found some slight coincidence in the first 
part, which treats of the Peninsula, but it can only be casual ; as, 
with the exception of a few concluding stanzas, the whole of this 
poem was written in the Levant. 

- The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most success- 
ful poets, admits of every variety. Dr. Beattie makes the fol- 
lowing observation: ‘“ Not long ago I began a poem in the style 
and stanza of Spenser, in which I propose to give full scope to 
my inclination, and be either droll or pathetic, descriptive or sen- 
timental, tender or satirical, as the humotir strikes me ; for, if [ 
mistake not, the measure which I have adopted admits equally of 


4 ἘΠΕ δὲ aan PREFACE- 


all these kinds of composition.” (7) — Strengthened in my opinion 
by stch authority, and by the example of some in the highest 
order of Italian poets, I shall make no apology for attempts at 
similar variations in the following composition ; satisfied that, if 
they are unsuccessful. their failure must be in the execution, 
rather than in the design sanctioned by the practice of Ariosto, 
Thomson, and Beattie. 


(1) Beattie’s Letters. 


ADDITION 
TO THE PREFACE. 


{ HAVE now waited till almost all our periodical journals have 
distributed their usual portion of criticism. To the justice of the 
generality of their criticisms I have nothing to object: it would 
ill become me to quarrel with their very slight degree of censure, 
when, perhaps, if they had been less kind they had been more 
candid. Returning, therefore, to all and each my best thanks for 
their liberality, on one point alone shall I venture an observation. 
Amongst the many objections justly urged to the very indifferent 
character of the ““ vagrant Childe” (whom notwithstanding many 
hints to the contrary, I still maintain to be a fictitious personage), 
it has been stated, that, besides the anachronism, he is very un- 
knightly, as the times of the Knights were times of Love, Honour, 
and so forth. Now, it so happens that the good old times, when 
“ amour du bon vieux tems, l'amour antique ” flourished, were 
the most profligate of all possible centuries. Those who have 
any doubts on this subject may consult St. Palaye, passim, and 
more particularly vol. ii. page 6959. The vows of chivalry were 
no better kept than any other vows whatsoever; and the songs 
of the Troubadours were not more decent, and certainly were 
much less refined, than those of Ovid. The “ Cours d’amour, 
parlemens d’amour, ou de courtésie et de gentilesse” had much 
more of love than of courtesy or gentleness. See Rolland on 
the same subject with St. Palaye. Whatever other objection 
may be urged to that most unamiable personage Childe Harold, 
he was so far perfectly knightly in his attributes — “ No waiter, 
but a knight templar.” (7) By the by, I fear that Sir Tristrem 
and Sir Lancelot were no better than they should be, although 
very poetical personages and true knights “ sans peur,” though 
not “‘sans reproche.” If the story of the institution of the “* Gar- 
ter”? be not a fable, the knights of that order have for several 
centuries borne the badge of a Countess of Salisbury, of mdif- 
ferent memory. So much for chivalry. Burke need not have 
regretted that its days are over, though Maria Antoinette was 
quite as chaste as most of those in whose honours lances were 
shivered, and knights unhorsed. 

Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir Joseph 
Banks, (the most chaste and celebrated of ancient and modern 
times,) few exceptions will be found to this statement, and I fear 


(1) The Rovers. Antijacobin. 


6 PREFACE. 


a little investigation will teach us not to regret these monstrous 
mummeries of the middle ages. 

I now leave “ Childe Harold,” to live his day, such as he is ; it 
had been more agreeable, and certainly more easy, to have drawn 
an amiable character. It had been easy to varnish over his faults, 
to make him do more and express less, but he never was intended 
as an example, further than to show that early perversion of mind 
and morals leads to satiety of past pleasures and disappointment 
in new ones, and that even the beauties of nature, and the stimu- 
lus of travel (except ambition, the most powerful of all excite- 
ments) are lost on a soul so constituted, or rather misdirected. 
Had I proceeded with the poem, this character would have deep- 
ened as he drew to the close ; for the outline which I once meant 
to fill up for him was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a mo- 
dern Timon, perhaps a poetical Zeluco. 


TO IANTHE. 


Nor in those climes where I have late been straying, 
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deem’a: 
Not in those visions to the heart displaying 
Forms which it sighs but to have only dream/’d, 
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem’d : 
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
To paint those charms which varied as they beam’d — 
To such as see thee not my words were weak ; 
To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak? 


Ah! may’st thou ever be what now thou art, 
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, 
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, 
Love’s image upon earth without his wing, 
And guileless beyond Hope’s imagining ! 
And surely she who now so fondly rears 
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, 
Beholds the rainbow of her future years, 

Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. 


Young Peri of the West! —’tis well for me 
My years already doubly number thine ; 
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, 
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine ; 
Happy, I ne’er shall see them in decline ; 
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed, 
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign 
To those whose admiration shall succeed, 
But mix’d with pangs to Love’s even loveliest hours decreed. 


Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the Gazelle’s, 

Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, 

Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, 

Glance o’er this page, nor to my verse deny 

That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh, 

Could I to thee be ever more than friend : 

This much, dear maid, accord ; nor question why 

To one so young my strain I would commend, 
But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. 


CO 


TO IANTHE. 


Such is thy name with this my verse entwined ; 
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
On Harold’s page, lanthe’s here enshrined 
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last ; 
My days once number’d, should this homage past 
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
Of him who hail’d thee, loveliest as thou wast, 
Such is the most my memory may desire ; 
Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less re- 
quire ? 


CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO THE FIRST 


I. 


Ou, thou! in Hellas deem’d of heavenly birth, 
Muse! form’d or fabled at the minstrel’s will ! 
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, 
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill: 
Yet there I’ve wander’d by thy vaunted rill ; 
Yes! sigh’d o’er Delphi’s long deserted shrine, (*) 
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still ; 
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine 

To grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine. 


II. 


Whilome in Albion’s isle there dwelt a youth, ᾿ 
Who ne in virtue’s ways did take delight ; 
But spent his days in riot most uncouth, & 
And vex’d with mirth the drowsy ear of Night. m 
Ah, me! in’sooth he was a shameless wicht, 
Sore given to revel ahd tingodly glee ; 
Few eatthly things found favour in his sight 
Save concubines and carnal companie, 

And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. / 


P 


TELL EINE 


te 
tite, 


"Pe, 
Res 


(1) The little village of Castri stands partly on the site of Delphi. Along the path 
of the mountain, from Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn in and from the 
rock. ‘ One,” said the guide, “ of a king who broke his neck hunting.” His 
majesty had certainly chosen the fittest spot for such an achievement. A little 
above Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, of immense depth ; the upper part of 
it is paved, and now a cow-heuse. On the other side of Castri stands a Greek mo- 
nastery ; some way above which is the cleft in the rock, with a range of caverns 
difficult of ascent, and apparently leading to the interior of the mountain ; probably 
to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. From this part descend the foun- 
tain and the ‘* Dews of Castalie.”* 


ΓΑ. δα A ALK 
Pa * ω 


\ 
CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO 1 


Ill. 
Childe Harold was he hight : — but whence his name 
And lineage long, it suits me not to say ; 
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, 
And had been glorious in another day : 
But one sad losel soils a name for aye, 
However mighty in the olden time : 
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin’d clay, 
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, 
. Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 


1V. 


Childe Harold bask’d him in the noontide sun, 
Disporting there like any other fly ; 

Nor deem’d before his little day was done 

One blast might chill him into misery. 

But long ere scarce a third of his pass’d by, 

Worse than adversity the Childe befell ; 

He felt the fulness of satiety : 

Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, 

w hich seem’d to him more lone than Eremite’ s sad cell 


Vv. 


For he through Sin’s long labyrinth had run, 

Nor made atonement when he did amiss, 

Had sigh’d to many though he loved but one, 
And that loved one, alas! could ne’er be his. 

Ah, happy she! to ’scape from him whose kiss 
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; 

Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, 
And spoil’d her goodly lands to gild his waste, 

Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste. 


VI. 


And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, 
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee ; 
Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, 
But Pride congeal’d the drop within his ee : 
Apart he stalk’d in joyless reverie, 
And from his native land resolved to 80, 
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea ; 
With pleasure drugg’d, he almost long’d for woe, 
“And e’en for change of scene would seek the shades below. 


CANTO IL. PILGRIMAGE. 


VII. 


The Childe departed from his father’s hall : 

It was a vast and venerable pile ; 

So old, it seemed only not to fall, 

Yet strength was pillar’d in each massy aisle. 

Monastic dome! condemn’d to uses vile! 

Where Superstition once had made her den 

Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile ; 

And monks might deem their time was come agen, 
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. 


VIll. 


Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood 
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold’s brow, 
As if the memory of some deadly feud 
Or disappointed passion lurk’d below: 
But this none knew, nor haply cared to know; 
For his was not that open, artless soul 
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow, 
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, 
Whate’er this grief mote be, which he could not control. 


IX. 


And none did love him — though to hall and bower 
He gather’d revellers from far and near, 
He knew them flatt’rers of the festal hour ; 
The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
Yea! none did love him — not his lemans dear — 
But pomp and power alone are woman’s care, 
And where these are light Eros finds a feere ; 
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, 
And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair. 


Xe 


Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot, 
Though parting from that mother he did shun ; 
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not 
Before his weary pilgrimage begun : 
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. 
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel ; 
Ye, who have known what ’tis to dote upon 
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. 


τ 


15 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO I, 


XI. 
His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, 
The laughing dames in whom he did delight, 
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands, 
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, 
And long had fed his youthful appetite ; 
His goblets brimm’d with every costly wine, 
And all that mote to luxury invite, 
Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine, 
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth’s centr al line. 


XII. 
The sails were fill’d, and fair the light winds blew, 


As glad to waft him from his native home ; 
And fast the white rocks faded from his view, 
And soon were lost in circumambient foam : 
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam 
Repented he, but in his bosom slept 
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come 
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, 
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. 


XITi. 


But when the sun was sinking in the sea 
He seized his harp, which he at times could string, 
And strike, albeit with untaught melody, 
When deem’d he no strange ear was listening : 
And now his fingers o’er it he did fling, 
And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight. 
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, 
And fleeting shores receded from his sight, 
Thus to the elements he pour’d his last “* Good Night.” 
: i. 
i‘ Ap1eu, adieu! my native shore 
Fades o’er the waters blue ; 
'The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 
___ And shrieks the wild seamew. 
' Yon Sun that sets upon the sea 
~ We follow in his flight ; 
᾿ Farewell awhile to him and thee, 
My native Land — Good Night! 


CANTO Is 


PILGRIMAGE. 


2. 


‘¢ A few short hours and He will rise 
To give the morrow birth ; 

And I shall hail the main and skies, 
But not my mother Earth. 

Deserted is my own good hail, 
Its hearth is desolate ; 

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ; 
My dog howls at the gate. 


3. 

“ Come hither, hither, my little page ! 
Why dost thou weep and wail ? 

Or dost thou dread the billows’ rage, 
Or tremble at the gale ? 

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ; 
Our’ship is swift and strong : 

Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 
More merrily along.” 


4, 
*‘ Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 
I fear not wave nor wind ; 
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I 
Am sorrowfulin mind ; 
For I have from my father gone, 
A mother whom I love, 
And have no friend, save these alone, 
But thee — and one above. 


5. 
‘ My father bless’d me fervently, 
Yet did not much complain ; 
But sorely will my mother sigh 
Till I come back again.’ — 
‘¢ Enough, enough, my little lad! 
Such tears become thine eye ; 
if I thy guileless bosom had, 
Mine own would not be dry. 


“ Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, 


Why dost thou look so pale ? 
Or dost thou dread a French foeman 
Or shiver at the gale?” 


14 


CHILDE HAROLD’S 


‘ Deem’st thou I tremble for my life ? 
Sir Childe, ’m not so weak ; 
But thinking on an absent wife 


Will blanch a faithful cheek. 


Ts 


* My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, 
Along the bordering lake, 

And when they on their father call, 
What answer shall she make ? --- 

“ Hnough, enough, my yeoman good, 
Thy grief let none gainsay ; 

But I, who am of lighter mood, 
Will laugh to flee away. 


8. 


“ For who would trust the seeming sighs 
Of wife or paramour? 

Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes 
We late saw streaming o’er. 

For pleasures past [ do not grieve, 
Nor perils gathering near ; 


ον My greatest grief is that I leave, 


No thing that claims a tear. 


ἃ 9. 


“ And now I’m in the world alone,_ 
Upon the wide, wide sea : 

But why should I for others groan, 
When none will sigh for me ? 

Perchance my dog will whine in vain, 
Till fed by stranger hands ; 

But long ere I come back again, 
He’d tear me where he stands. 


10. 


“ With thee, my bark, I’ll swiftly go 
Athwart the foaming brine ; 

Nor care what land thou bear’st me to, 
So not again to mine. 

Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves! 
And when you fail my sight, 

Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves ! 
My native land — Good Night!” 


CANTO 1. 


CANTO I. PILGRIMAGE. 1 


ΧΙν. 


On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, 
And winds are rude in Biscay’s sleepless bay. 
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, 
New shores descried make every bosom gay ; 
And Cintra’s mountain greets them on their way, 
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep, 
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay ; 
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, 
And steer ’twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap. 


XV. 


Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see 

What Heaven hath done for this delicious land ! 
What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree! 

What goodly prospects o’er the hills expand ! 

But man would mar them with an impious hand : 

And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge 
?Gainst those who most transgress his high command, 
With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge 

Gaul’s locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge. 


XVI. 


What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold ! 

Her image floating on that noble tide, 

Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, 

But now whereon a thousand keels did ride 

Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, 

And to the Lusians did her aid afford: 

A nation swoln with ignorance and pride, 

Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword 
Τὸ save them from the wrath of Gaul’s unsparing lord. 


XVII. 
But whoso entereth within this town, 
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, 
Disconsolate will wander up and down, 
’Mid many things unsightly to strange ee ; 
For hut and palace show like filthily : 
The dingy denizens are rear’d in dirt ; 
Ne personage of high or mean degree 
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, 
Though shent with Egypt’s plague, unkempt, unwash’d, un- 
hurt. 


16 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO 1. 


XVIII. 


Poor, paltry slaves! yet born ’midst noblest scenes — 
Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men ? 
Lo! Cintra’s glorious Eden intervenes 
In variegated maze of mount and glen. 
Ah, me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, 
To follow half on which the eye dilates 
Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken 
Thar those whereof such things the bard relates, 
Who to the awe-struck world unlock’d Elysium’s gates ? 


XIX. 


The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown’d, 
The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, 
The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown’d, 
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep, 
The tender azure of the unruffled deep, 
The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, 
The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, 
The vine on high, the willow branch below, 

Mix’d in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. 


XX; 


Then slowly climb the many-winding way, 
And frequent turn to linger as you go, 
From loftier rocks new loveliness survey 
And rest ye at ‘ Our Lady’s house of woe ; ” (’) 
Where frugal monks their little relics show, 
And sundry legends to the stranger tell 
Here impious men have punish’d been, and lo! 
Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell, 
In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell. 


1) The Convent of “ Our Lady of Punishment,” MWossa Sefiora de Pena, on 
tha summit of the rock. Below, at some distance, is the Cork Convent, where St. 
Honorius dug his den, over which is his epitaph. From the hills, the sea adds to 
the beauty of the view. — [Since the publication of this poem, I have been informed 
of the misapprehension of the term Nossa Sefiora de Pena. It was owing to the 
want of the ¢ilde, or mark over the 72, which alters the signification of the word: 
witn it, Pefia signifies a rock; without it, Pena has the sense I adopted. I do not 
think it necessary to alter the passage ; as though the common acceptation affixed to 
itis ‘* Our Lady of the Rock,” I may well assume the other sense from the sey 
rities practised there. | 


ΠΑΙ͂ΤΟ I. PILGRIMAGE. 17 


XXI. 


And here and there, as up the crags you spring, 

Mark many rude-carved crosses, near the path: 

Yet deem not these devotion’s offering — 

These are memorials frail of murderous wrath : 

For wheresoe’er the shrieking victim hath 

Pour’d forth his blood beneath the assassin’s knife, 

Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; 

And grove and glen with thousand such are rife 
Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life. (ἢ) 


XXII. 


On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, 

Are domes where whilome kings did make repair ; 

But now the wild flowers round them only breathe ; 

Yet ruin’d splendour still is lingering there. 

And yonder towers the Prince’s palace fair : 

There thou too, Vathek! England’s wealthiest son, 

Once form’d thy Paradise, as not aware 

When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done, 
Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun. 


XXIII. 
Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan, 
Beneath yon mountain’s ever beauteous brow : 
But now, as if a thing unblest by Man, 
Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou ! 
Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow 
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide ; 
Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how 
Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied ; 
Swept into wrecks anon by Time’s ungentle tide ! 


(1) It is a well known fact, that in the year 1809 the assassinations in the streets 
of Lisbon and its vicinity were not confined by the Portuguese to their countrymen : 
but that Englishmen were daily butchered: and so far from redress being obtained, 
we were requested not to interfere if we perceived any compatriot defending himself 
against his allies. I was once stopped in the way to the theatre at eight o’clock in 
the evening, when the streets were not more empty than they generally are at that 
hour, opposite to an open shop, and in a carriage with a friend : had we not fortu- 
nately been armed, I have not the least doubt that we should have “ adorned a tale ” 
instead of telling one. The crime of assassination is not confined to Portuga): in 
Sicity and Malta we are knocked on the head at a handsome average nightly, and 
not a Sicilian or Maltese is ever punished! % 


VOL ril. ——— C 


18 


CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO τ. 


XXIV. 


Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened ! (ἢ) 
Ob! dome displeasing unto British eye ! 

With diadem hight foolscap, lo! a fiend, 8 
A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, 
There sits in parchment robe array’d, and by 
His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, 

Where blazon’d glare names known to chivalry, 
And sundry signatures adorn the roll, 


Whereat the Urchin points and laughs with all his sou}. 


XXV. 


Convention is the dwarfish demon styled 

That foil’d the knights in Marialva’s dome : 

Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled. 
And turn’d a nation’s shallow joy to gloom. 
Here Folly dash’d to earth the victor’s plume, 
And Policy regain’d what arms had lost: 

For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom ! 
Woe to the conqu’ring, not the conquer’d host, 


Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania’s coast. 


XXVi. 


And ever since that martial synod met, 

Britannia sickens, Cintra! at thy name ; 

And folks in office at the mention fret, 

And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame. 
How will posterity the deed proclaim! 
Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, 
To view these champiuns cheated of their fame, 
By foes in fight o’erthrown, yet victors here, 


Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming yea: ὁ 


XXVII. 
So deem’d the Childe, as o’er the mountains he 
Did take his way in solitary guise : 
Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to fiee, 
More restless than the swallow in the skies : 
Though here a while he learn’d to moralize, ἢ 


(1) The Convention of Cintra was signed in the palace of the Marchese Mar:- 


alva. 


The late exploits of Lord Wellington have effaced the follies of Cintra. 


lie has, indeed, done wonders ; he has perhaps changed the character of a nation, 
reconciled rival superstitions, and baffled an enemy who never retreated before his 
predecessors. 


has 
Ss 


CANTO I. PILGRIMAGE. 


For Meditation fix’d at times on him ; 
And conscious Reason whisper’d to despise 
His early youth, mispent in maddest whim ; 
But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew dim. 


XXVIII. 


T’o horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits 
A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul : 
Again he rouses from his moping fits, 
But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. 
Onward he flies, nor fix’d as yet the goal 
Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage 3 
And o’er him many changing scenes must roll 
Hre toil his thirst for travel can assuage, 
Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage. 


XXIX. 


Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay, (*) 

Where dwelt of yore the Lusians’ luckless queen ; 

And church and court did mingle their array, 

And mass and revel were alternate seen ; 

Lordlings and freres — ill-sorted fry I ween! 

But here the Babylonian whore hath built 

A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, 

That men forget the blood which she hath spilt, 
And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to varnish guilt. 


XXX 


O’er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, 

(Oh, that such hills upheld a freeborn race !) 
Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, 

Childe Haroid wends through many a pleasant place. 
Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, 

And marvel men should quit their easy chair, 
- The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace, 
Oh! there is sweetness in the mountain air, 

And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share. 


(1) The extent of Mafra is prodigious ; it contains a palace, convent, and most 
superb church. The six organs are the most beautiful I ever beheld, in point ot 
decoration ; we did not hear them, but were told that their tones were correspondent 
to their splendour. Mafra is termed the Escurial of Portugal. 


29 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO I. 


XXXI. 


More bleak to view the hills at length recede, 
And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend ; 
Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed ! 
Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, 
Spain’s realms appear whereon her shepherds tend 
Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows — 
Now must the pastor’s arm his lambs defend : 
For Spain is compass’d by unyielding foes, 
And all must shield their all, or share Subjection’s woes. 


XXXII. 


Where Lusitania and her Sister meet, 
Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide ? 
Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet, 
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide ? 
Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride ? 
Or fence of art, like China’s vasty wall ? — 
Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 
Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, 
Rise like the rocks that part Hispania’s land from Gaul: 


XXXIII. 
But these between a silver streamlet glides, 
And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, 
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. 
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, 
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, 
That peaceful still ’twixt bitterest foemen flow ; 
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : 
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 
*T wixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low. (ἢ) 


| XXXIV. 
But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass’d, 
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along 
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, 
So noted ancient roundelays among. 
Whilome upon his banks did legions throng 
Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendour drest : 
Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong ; 
The Paynim turban and the Christian crest 
Mix’d on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppress’d. 


{1} AsI found the Portuguese, so I have characterized them. That thev are 
since improved, at least in courage, is evident. 


CaRro f. PILGRIMAGE. 21 


XXXV. 


Oh, lovely Spian! renown’d, romantic land! 

Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, 

When Cava’s traitor-sire first call’d the band 

That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore ? (’) 

Where are those bloody banners which of yore 

Waved o’er thy sons, victorious to the gale, 

And drove at last the spoilers to their shore ? 

Red gleam’d the cross, and waned the crescent pale 
While Afric’s echoes thrill’d with Moorish matrons’ wail. 


XXXVI. 


Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale ? 
Ah! such, alas! the hero’s amplest fate ! 
When granite moulders and when records fail, 
A peasant’s plaint prolongs his dubious date. 
Pridé! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate, 
See how the Mighty shrink into a song! 
Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve thee great ? 
Or must thou trust Tradition’s simple tongue, 
When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee 
wrong ἢ 


XXXVII. 


Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake ! advance! 
Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries ; 
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty Jance, ———_. 
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies: 
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, 
And speaks in thunder through yon engine’s roar : 
In every peal she calls — “ Awake! arise!” 
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, 
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia’s shore 7 


XXXVITI. 


Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note ? 
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath ? 

Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote ; 

Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath 
Tyrants and tyrants’ slaves ? — the fires of death, 


‘1) Count Julian’s daughter, the Helen of Spain. Pelagius preserved his inde- 
pendence in the fastnesses of the Asturias, and the descendants of his followers 
after some centuries, completed their struggle by the conquest of Grenada. 


CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO I. 


The bale-fires flash on high: — from rock to rock 
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe ; 
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 

Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. 


XXXIX. 


Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, 
His blood-red tresses deep’ning in the sun, 
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, 
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; 
Kestless it rolls, now fix’d, and now anon 
Flashing afar, — and at his iron feet 
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done ; 
For on this morn three potent nations meet, 
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. 


XL. 


By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see 
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there) 
Their rival scarfs of mix’d embroidery, 
Their various arms that glitter in the air! 
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair 
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey! 
All join the chase, but few the triumph share ; 
The Grave shail bear the chiefest prize away, 

And Havoe scarce for joy can number their array. 


XLI. 


Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice ; 
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high ; 
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies ; 
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory! 
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 
‘That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, 
Are met — as if at home they could not die — 
To feed the crow on Talavera’s plain, 

And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. 


XLIl. 


There shall they rot — Ambition’s honour’d fools 
Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay! 
Vain Sophistry ! in these behold the tools, 

The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 

By myriads, when they dare to pave their way 


CANTO I. PILGRIMAGE. 


With human hearts — to what ? — a dream alone. 

Can despots compass aught that hails their sway ? 

Or call with truth one span of earth their own, 
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone? 


XL 
Oh, Albuera! glorious field of grief! 
As o’er thy plain the Pilgrim prick’d his steed, 
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, 
A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed ! 
Peace to the perish’d! may the warrior’s meed 
And tears of triumph their reward prolong 
Till others fall where other chieftains lead 
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, 
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song ! 


XLIV. 


Enough of Battle’s minions! let them play 

Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame : 
Mame that will scarce re-animate their clay, 

Though thousands fall to deck some single name. 

{In sooth ’twere sad to thwart their noble aim 

Who strike, blest hirelings ! for their country’s good, 
And die, that living might have proved her shame ; 
Perish’d, perchance, in some domestic feud, 

Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine’s path pursued. 


XLV. 


Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 
Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued : 
Yet is she free — the spoiler’s wish’d-for prey ἢ 
Soon, soon shall Conquest’s fiery foot intrude, 
Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. 
fnevitable hour! ’Gainst fate to strive 
Where Desolation plants her famish’d brood 
Ts vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive, 

And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive. 


XLVI. 


But all unconscious of the coming doom, 

The feast, the song, the revel here abounds ; 
Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, 
Nor bleed these patriots with their country’s wounds 
Nor here War’s clarion, but Love’s rebeck sounds ; 


CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO I. 


Here Folly still his votaries inthralls ; 
And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds : 
Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, 

Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott’ring walls. 


XVLII. 


Not so the rustic — with his trembling mate 
He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, 
Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, 
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. 
No more beneath soft Eve’s consenting star 
Fandango twirls his jocund castanet : 
Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, 
Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret ; 
The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet! 


XLVITII. 


How carols now the lusty muleteer ? 

Of love, romance, devotion is his lay, 

As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, 

His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? 

No!,as he speeds, he chants “ Viva el Rey!” 

And checks his song to execrate Godoy, 

The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day 

When first Spain’s queen beheld the black-eyed boy, 
And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy 


KLIX. 


On yon long, level plain, at distance crown’d 
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, 
Wide scatter’d hoof-marks dint the wounded ground ; 
And, scathed by fire, the greensward’s darken’d vest 
Tells that the foe was Andalusia’s guest : 
Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, 
Here the bold peasant storm’d the dragon’s nest ; 
Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, 

And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost. 


L 


And whomsoe’er along the path you meet 
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, 
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet: (’) 


(1) The red cockade, with “‘ Fernando Septimo” in the centre. 


CANTO I. PILGRIMAGE. 25 


Wo to the man that walks in public view 
Without of loyalty this token true : 
Sharp is the knife, and sudden ts the stroke ; 
And sorely would the ‘xallic foeman rue, 
If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke, 
Could blunt the sabre’s edge, or clear the cannon’s smoke. 


LI. 


At every turn Morena’s dusky height : 

Sustains aloft the battery’s iron load ; 

And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, 

The mountain-howitzer, the broken road, 

The bristling palisade, the fosse o’erflow’d, 

The station’d bands, the never-vacant watch, 

The magazine in rocky durance stow’d, 

The holster’d steed beneath the shed of thatch, 
The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match, (*) 


LI. 


Portend the deeds to come : — but he whose nod 

Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, 

A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod ; 

A little moment deigneth to delay : 

Soon will his legions sweep through these their way ; 

The West must own the Scourger of the world. 

Ah! Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning-day, 

When soars Gaul’s Vulture, with his wings unfurl’d, 
And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl’d. 


LIfl. 


And must they fall? the young, the proud, the brave, 
To swell one bloated Chief’s unwholesome reign 7 
No step between submission and a grave 7 
The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain ? 
And doth the Power that man adores ordain 
Their doom, nor heed the suppliant’s appeal ? 
Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain ? 
And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, 
The Veteran’s skill, Youth’s fire, and Manhood’s heart of 
steel 1 


(1) All who have seen a battery will recollect the pyramidal form in which shot 
and shells are piled. The Sierra Morena was fortified in every defile through 
which I passed in my way to Seville. 


KO 
io) 


CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO 1, 


LIV. 


Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, 
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar 
And, all unsex’d, the anlace hath espoused 
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war? 
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar 
Appall’d, an owlet’s larum chill’d with dread, 
Now views the column-scattering bay’net jar, 
The falchion flash, and o’er the yet warm dead 
Stalks with Minerva’s step where Mars might quake to tread. 


LV. 


Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, 
Oh! had you known her in her softer hour, 
Mark’d her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil, 
Heard her light, lively tones in Lady’s bower, 
Seen her long locks that foil the painter’s power, 
Her fairy form, with more than female grace, 
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza’s tower 
Beheld her smile in Danger’s Gorgon face, 
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory’s fearful chase. 


LVI. 


Her lover sinks — she sheds no ill-timed tear ; 
Her chief is slain — she fills his fatal post ; 
Her fellows flee — she checks their base career ; 
The foe retires — she heads the sallying host: 
Who can appease like her a lover’s ghost ? 
Who can avenge so well a leader’s fall ? 
What maid retrieve when man’s flush’d hope is lost? 
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, 
Foil’d by a woman’s hand, before a batter’d wall ? (*) 


LVII. 


Yet are Spain’s maids no race of Amazons, 
But form’d for all the witching arts of love : 
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, 
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 
Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove, 


(1) Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza. When the author was at 
Seville sne walked daily on the Prado, decorated with medals and orders, by com- 
manu of the Junta. 


CANTO I. PILGRIMAGE. 27 


Pecking the hand that hovers o’er her mate : 
In softness as in firmness far above 
Remoter females, famed for sickening prate : 
Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great. 


LVIII. 


The seal Love’s dimpling finger hath impress’d 

Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch: (ἢ) 

Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, 

Bid man be valiant ere he merit such ; 

Her glance how wildly beautiful! how much 

Hath Phoebus woo’d in vain to spoil her cheek, 

Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch ! 

Who round the North for paler dames would seek? 
Plow poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak! 


Lix. 


Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud ; 
Match me, ye harams of the land! where now 
I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud 
Beauties that ev’n a cynic must avow ; 
Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow 
To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind, 
With Spain’s dark-glancing daughters — deign to know 
There your wise Prophet’s paradise we find, 
His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. 


LX. 


Oh, thou Parnassus! (*) whom I now survey, 

Not in the phrensy of a dreamer’s eye, 

Not in the fabled landscape of a lay 

But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky 

In the wild pomp of mountain majesty ! 

What marvel if I thus essay to sing ? 

The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 

Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, 
Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her) 

wing. - 


(1) ‘ Sigilla in mento impressa Amoris digitulo 
Vestigio demonstrant mollitudinem.” Aut. GEL. 


(2) These stanzas were written in Castri, (Delphos,) at the foot of Parnassus, 
now called A:axvpa—Liakura. 


28 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO &. 


LXI. 


Oft have I dream’d of Thee! whose glorious name 
Who knows not, knows not man’s divinest lore : 
And now I view thee, ’tis, alas! with shame 
That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
When I recount thy worshippers of yore 
I tremble, and can only bend the knee; 
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, 
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 
In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee! 


LXIl. 


Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, 
Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot, 
Shall I unmoved behold the hallow’d scene, 
Which cthers rave of, though they know it not ? 
Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, 
And thou, the Muses’ seat, art now their grave, 
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot, 
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave 

And glides with glassy foot o’er yon melodious wave. 


LXIII. 


Of thee hereafter. — Ev’n amidst my strain 

I turn’d aside to pay my homage here ; 

¥orgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain ; 

Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear : 

And hail’d thee, not perchance without a tear. 

Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt 

Let me some remnant, some memorial bear ; 

Yield me one leaf of Daphne’s deathless plant, 
Nor let thy votary’s hope be deem’d an idle vaunt. 


LXIV. 


But ne’er didst thou, fair Mount! when Greece was young, 
See round thy giant base a brighter choir, 
Nor e’er did Delphi, when her priestess sung 
The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, 
Behold a train more fitting to inspire 
The song of love than Andalusia’s maids, 
Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire : 
Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades 
As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades. 


CANTO I PILGRIMAGE. 


LXV. 
Fair is proud Seville ; let her country boast 
Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days ; (’) 
But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, 
Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. 
Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways 
While boyish blood is mantling, who can ’scape 
The fascination of thy magic gaze ? 
A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, 
And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape. 


LXVI. 


When Paphos fell by time — accursed Time ! 
The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee — 
The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime ; 
And Venus, constant to her native sea, 
To nought else constant, hither deign’d to flee ; 
And fix’d her shrine within these walls of white ; 
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she 
Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, 

A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright. 


LXVII. 


From morn till night, from night till startled Morn; 
Peeps blushing on the revel’s laughing crew, 
The song is heard, the rosy garland worn ; 
Devices quaint, and frolics ever new, 
Tread on each other’s kibes. A long adieu 
He bids to sober joy that here sojourns 
Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu 
Of true devotion monkish incense burns, 
And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour bv turns. 


LXVIII. 


The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest ; 
What hallows it upon this Christian shore ? 
Lo! it is sacred to a solemn feast; 
Hark! heard you not the forest-monarch’s roar? 
Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore 
Of man and steed, o’erthrown beneath his horn ; 
The throng’d arena shakes with shouts for more ; 
Yells the mad crowd o’er entrails freshly torn, 

Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev’n affects to mourn. 


(1) Seville was the Hispalis of the Romans. 


29 


9 
30 CHILDE HAROLD’S CAMNTD fe 


LXIX. 

The seventh day this ; the jubilee of man. 

London! right well thou know’st the day of prayer : 

Then thy spruce citizen, wash’d artisan, 

And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air: 

Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, 

And humblest gig through sundry. suburbs whirl ; 

To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make repair ; 

Tull the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, 
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl. 


LXX, 

Some o’er thy Thamis row the ribbon’d fair, 

Others along the safer turnpike fly ; 

Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware, 

And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 

Ask ye, Boeotian shades! the reason why ? (ἢ) 

Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, 

Grasp’d in the holy hand of Mystery, 

In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, 
And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance till morn. 


ΧΧΙ- 
All have their fooleries — not alike are thine, 
Fair Cadiz, rising o’er the dark blue sea! 
Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine, 
Thy saint adorers count the rosary : 
Much is the Viren teased to shrive them free 
(Well do I ween the only virgin there) 
From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be ; 
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare : 
Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share. 


LXXII. 


‘The lists are oped, the spacious area clear’d 
Thousands on thousands piled are seated round 
Long ere the first loud trumpet’s note is heard, 
Ne vacant space for lated wight is found: 
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, 
Skil’d in the ogle of ἃ roguish eye, 
Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound ; 
None through their cold disdain are doom’d to die 
As moon-struck bards complain, by Love’s sad archery. 
(1) This was written at Thebes, and consequently in the best situation for ask- 


‘ng and answering such a question; not as the birthplace of Pindar, but as the ca- 
pital of Bosotia, where the first riddle was propounded and solved. 


CABTO I. PILGRIMAGE. 


LXXIII. 
Hush’d is the din of tongues — on gallant steeds, 


Re 


31 


With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-pois’d lance 


Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, 
And lowly bending to the lists advance ; 
Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance : 
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, 
The crowd’s loud shout and ladies’ lovely glance, 
Best prize of better acts, they bear away, 

And all that kings or chiefs e’er gain their toils repay. 


LXXIV. 


In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array’d, 

But all afoot, the light-limb’d Matadore 

Stands in the centre, eager to invade 

The lord of lowing herds ; but not before 

The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o’er 

Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed : 

ΠῚΒ arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more 

Can man achieve without thé friendly steed — 
Alas! too oft condemn’d for him to bear and bleed. 


LXXV. 
Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, 
The den expands, and Expectation mute 
Gapes round the silent circle’s peopled walls. 
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, 
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, 
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe : 
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit 
His first attack, wide waving to and fro 

His angry tail; red rolls his eye’s dilated glow. 


LXXVI. 


Sudden he stops ; his eye is fix’d: away, 
Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear : 
Now is thy time, to perish, or display 
The skill that yet may check his mad career. 
With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer ; 
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes ; 
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear : 
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes ; 
Dart follows dart; lance, lance ; loud bellowings spea 
woes. 


k his 


CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO I. 


LXXVII. 


Again he comes ; nor dart nor lance avail, 

Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse ; 

‘Though man and man’s avenging arms assail, 

Vain are his weapons, vainer 15 his force. 

One gallant steed is stretch’d a mangled corse : 

Another, hideous sight! unseam’d appears, 

His gory chest unveils life’s panting source ; 

Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears ; 
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm/’d he bears. 


LXXVIIl. 


Foil’d, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, 
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, 
Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, 
And foes disabled in the brutal fray : 
And now the Matadores around him play, 
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand : 
Once more through all he bursts his thundering way — 
Vain rage ! the mantle quits. the conynge hand, 
Wraps nis fierce eye — ’tis past — he sinks upon the sand ! 


ΓΕ ΣΥΝ: 
Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, 
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. 
He stops —he starts — disdaining to decline : 
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, 
Without a groan, without a struggle dies. 
The decorated car appears — on high 
The corse is piled — sweet sight for vulgar eyes — 
Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, 

Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing ; 


EXXX 
Such the ungentle sport that oft invites 
The Spanish maid, aud cheers the Spanish swain 
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights 
In vengeance gloating on another’s pain. 
What private feuds the troubled village stain ! 
Though now one phalanx’d host should meet the foe, 
Enough, alas! in humble homes remain, 
To meditate ’gainst friends the secret blow, 
For some slight cause of wrath, whence life’s warm stream 
must flow. 


CANTO I, PILGRIMAGE. 


LXXXI. 
But J ἬΝ has fled :. his bars, his bolts, 
His wither’d centinel, Duenna sage ! 
And all whereat the generous soul revolts, 
Which the stern dotard .deem’d he could encage, 
Have pass’d to darkness with the vanish’d age. 
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen, 
(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage,) 
With braided tresses bounding o’er the green, 
While on the gay dance shone Nights lover-loving Gueea 


LXXXII. 
Oh! many a time, and oft, had Harold ἘΠΕῚ 
Or dream’d he loved, since Rapture is a dream ; 
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, 
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe’s stream ; 
And lately had he learn’d with truth to deem 
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings : 
How fair, how young, how soft soe’er he seem, 
Full from the fount of Joy’s delicious springs 
Some bitter o’er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. (’) 


LXXXIUI. 
Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, 
Though now it moved him as it moves the wise : 
Not that Philosophy on such a mind 
E’er deign’d to bend her chastely-awful eyes : 
But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies ; 
And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, 
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise: 
Pleasure’s pall’d victim ! life-abhorrmg gloom 
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain’s unresting doom. 


ΠΧΧΧΙΨ. 
Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng : 
But viewd them not with misanthr opic hate : 
Fain would he now have join’d the dance, the song ; 
But who may smile that sinks beneatl. his fate ? 
Nought that he saw his sadness could abate : 
Yet once he struggled ’gainst tne demon’s sway. 
And as in Beauty’s bower he pensive ‘sate, 
Pour’d forth this unpremeditated lay, 
To charms as fair as ὑνης that soothed his happier dav: 


(1) ‘* Medio de ani leporum 
Surgit amari aliqui{ quod in ipsis floribus aneat- τ Luc, 


VOL ΗΠ - Ὁ 


CHILDE HAROLD’S 


TO INEZ. 


1s 


Nay, smile not at my sullen brow ; 
Alas! I cannot smile again : 

Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 
Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 


ὡς 


And dost thou ask, what secret woe 
{ bear, corroding joy and youth? 
And wilt thou vainly seek to know © 
_A pang, ev’n thou must fail to soothe ὦ 


3. 
It is not love, it is not hate 
Nor low Ambition’s honours lost. 
That bids me loathe my present state, 
And fly from all I prized the most : 


4. 
It is that weariness which springs 
From ali I meet, or hear, or 566: 
To me no pleasure Beauty brings ; 
Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 
: δ. 
It is that settled, ceaseless gloom sas 
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; 
That will not look beyond the tomb, 
But cannot hope for rest before. 


6. 
What Exile from himself ean flee ? 
To Zones, though more and more remote, 
Still, still pursues, where-e’er I be, 
The blight of life — the demon Thought. 


| Fi 
Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, 
And taste of all that I forsake ; 
Oh! may they still of transport dream, 
And ne’er, at least like me, awake ! 


CANTO 1. 


canTo & PILGRIMAGE. 35 


8. 


Through many a clime ’tis mine to go, 
With many a retrospection curst ; 

And all my solace is to know, 
Whate’er betides, "να known the worst. 


9. 


What is that worst? Nay do not ask — 
In pity from the search forbear : 
Smile on — nor venture to unmask 
Man’s heart, and view the Hell that’s there. 


LXXXV. 
Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu! 
Who may forget how well thy walls have stood ' 
When all were changing thou alone wert true, 
First to be free and last to be subdued : 
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, 
Some native blood was seen thy streets to die ; 
A traitor only fell beneath the feud ; (’) 
Here all were noble, save Nobility ; 
None hugg’d a conqueror’s chain, save fallen Chivalry - 


LXXXVI. 


Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate ! 
They fight for freedom who were never free ; 
A Kingless people for a nerveless state, 
Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, 
True to the veriest slaves of ‘Treachery : 
Fond of a land which gave them nought but life 
Pride points the path that leads to Liberty ; 
Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, 
War, war is still the cry, ““ War even to the knife !” (ἢ 


LXXXVII. 


Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, 
Go, read whate’er is writ of bloodiest strife : 
Whate’er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe 
Can act, is acting there against man’s life : 

From flashing scimitar to secret knife, 


(1) Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, the governor of Cadiz. 


(2) ‘* War to the snife.” Palafox’s answer to the French general at the siege 
of Saragoza. 


36 CHILDE HAROLD’S 


War mouldeth there each weapon to his need — 

So may he guard the sister and the wife, 

So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, _ 
So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed ! 


LXXXVIII. 


Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? 

Look o’er the ravage of the reeking plain ; 
Look on the hands with female slaughter red ; 
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, 
Then to the vulture let each corse remain ; 
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird’s maw, 


CANTO 1. 


Let their bleach’d bones, and blood’s unbleaching stain, 


Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe : 
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw! 


LKXXIX. 


Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done : 
Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees : 

It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, 

Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. 

Fall’n nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she frees 
More than her fell Pizarros once enchain’d : 
Strange retribution! now Columbia’s ease 
Repairs the wrongs that Quito’s sons sustain’d, 


While o’er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrain’d. 


XC. 


Not all the blood at Talavera shed, 

Not all the marvels of Barossa’s fight, 

Not Albuera lavish of the dead, 

Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. 

When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight ? 

When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil 

How many a doubtful day shall sink in night, 

Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, 
And Freedom’s stranger-tree grow native of the soil ! 


XCI. 
And thou, my friend ! (*) — since unavailing woe 
Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain — 


1) The Honourable I*. W**. of the Guards,who died of a fever at Coimbra. I had 
known him ten years, the better half of his life, and the happiest part of mine. In 
the short space of one month, I have lost her who gave me being, and most of thove 


who had made that being tolerable. To me the lines of Young are no fict 


ion : 


CANTO 1. PILGRIMAGE. ὮΝ 


Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, 

Pride might forbid e’en Friendship to complain : 

But thus unlaurel’d to descend in vain, 

By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, 

And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, 

While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest! 
What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest ? 


XCIi. 


Oh, known the earliest, and esteem’d the most ! 

Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear ! 

Though to my hopeless days for ever lost, 

In dreams deny me not to see thee here! 

And Morn im secret shall renew the tear 

Of Consciousness awaking to her woes, 

And Fancy hover o’er thy bloodless bier, 

Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, 
And mourn’d and mourner he united in repose. 


XC 
Here is one fytte of Harold’s pilgrimage : 
Ye who of him may further seek to know, 
Shall find some tidings in a future page, 
if he that rhymeth now may scribble moe, 
; ~ Is this too much? stern Critic! say not so: 
Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld 
In other lands, where he was doom’d to go: 
Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, 
Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quell’d. 


ἐς Insatiate archer! could not one suffice 7 
Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain, 
And thrice ere thrice. yon moon had fill’d her horn.” 


i should have ventured a verse to the memory of the late Charles Skinner Mat- 
thews, Fellow of Downing College, Cambridge, were he not too much above all 
praise ‘of mine. His powers of mind, shown in the attainment of greater honours, 
against the ablest candidates, than those of any graduate on record at Cambridge, 
have sufficiently established his fame on the spot where it was acquired: while his 
softer qualities Jive in the recollection of friends who loved him tvo well to envy his 
super lority. 


CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO THE SECOND. 


I. 
Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven ! — but thou, alas! 
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire — 
Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was, 
And is, despite of war and wasting fire, (’) 
And years, that bade thy worship to expire : 
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, 
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
That thoughts of thee and thine on polish’d breasts bestow. (ἢ 


(1) Part of the Acropolis was destroyed by the explosion of a magazine during 
the Venetian siege. 

(2) We can all feel, or imagine, the regret with which the ruins of cities, once 
the capitals of empires, are beheld: the reflections suggested by such objects are 
too trite to require recapitulation. But never did the littleness of man, and the va- 
nity of his very best virtues, of patriotism to exalt, and of valour to defend his country, 
appear more conspicuous than in the record of what Athens was, and the certainty 
of what she now is. This theatre of contention between mighty factions, of the 
struggles of orators, the exaltation and deposition of tyrants, the triumph and pu- 
nishment of generals, is now become a scene of petty intrigue and perpetual disturb- 
ance, between the bickering agents of certain British nobility and gentry. ‘‘ The 
wild foxes, the owls and serpents in the ruins of Babylon,” were surely less degrad- 
ing than such inhabitants. The Turks have the plea of conquest for their tyranny, 
and the Greeks have only suffered the fortune of war, incidental to the bravest ; but 
how are the mighty fallen, when two painters contest the privilege of plundering the 
Parthenon, and triumph in turn, according to the tenor of each succeeding firman ! 
Sylla could but punish, Philip subdue, and Xerxes burn Athens; but it remained 
for the paltry antiquarian, and his despicable agents, to render her contemptible as 
himself and his pursuits. ‘The Parthenon, before its destruction in part, by fire du- 
ring the Venetian siege, had been a temple, a church, and a mosque. In each 
point of view it is an object of regard: it changed its worshippers; but still it wasa 
piace of worship thrice sacred to devotion : its violation is a triple sacrilege. But 

‘¢ Man, vain man, 
Drest in a little brief autharity, 
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven 
As make the angels weep.” 


42 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO II. 


᾿ Il. 
2 © ©" ~ Ancient of days! august Athena! where, 
owen" Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul ? 
ἔς eseo4e Gone — glimmering through the dream of things that were : 
“4 — | First im the race that led to Glory’s goal, ὁ 
4,» | ‘They won, and pass’d away — is this the whole ? 
A oe ' } Ξ A schoolboy’s tale, the wonder of an hour! 
wets μα . The warrior’s weapon and the sophist’s stole 
e*~ Are sought in vain, and o’er each mouldering tower, 


we ‘Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power. 


ΠΙ- 
Son of the morning, rise ! approach you here ! 
Come — but molest not yon defenceless urn : 
Look on this spot —a nation’s sepulchre! _ 
Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. 
Even gods must yield — religions take their turn: 
"Twas Jove’s — ’tis Mahomet’s — and other creeds 
Will rise with other years, till man shall learn 
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds ; 
Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on reeds. 


IV. 


Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven — 
Is’t not enough, unhappy thing! to know 
Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given, 
That being, thou would’st. be again, and go, 
Thou know’st not, reck’st not to what region, so 
On earth no more, but mingled with the ‘skies ? 
Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe? 

_ Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies : 

That little urn saith more than thousand homilies. 


Vv. 


Or burst the vanish’d Hero’s lofty mound : 

Far on the solitary shore he sleeps : (’) 

He fell, and falling nations mourn’d around ; 
But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, 
Nor warlike-worshipper his vigil keeps: 


(1) It was not always the custom of the Greeks to burn their dead; the greater 
Ajax, in particular, was interred entire. Almost all the chiefs became gods after 
their decease ; and he was indeed neglected, who had not annual games near his 
tomb, or festivals in honour of his memory by his countrymen, as Achilles, Brasidas, 
&c. and at last even Antinous, whose death was as heroic as his life was. mfamous. 


CANTO Il. PILGRIMAGE. 


Where demi-gods appear’d, as records tell. 
Remove yon skull from out the scatter’d heaps: 
Is that a temple where a God may dwell ? 

Why ev’n the worm at last disdains her shatter’d cell ! 


VI. 


Look on its broken arch, its ruin’d wall, 
Its chambers desolate, and portals foul : 
Yes, this was once Ambition’s airy hall, 
The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul : 
Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, 
The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit 
And Passion’s host, that never brook’d control : 
Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, 

People this lonely tower, this tenement refit ? 


Vil. 


Well didst thou speak, Athena’s wisest son! 

‘¢ All that we know is, nothing can be known.” 

Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun ! 

Each hath his pang, but feeble sufferers groan 

With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. 

Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimeth best ; 

Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron: 

There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, 
But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest. 


VIIl. 


Yet if, as holiest men have deem’d, there be 
A land of souls beyond that sable shore, 
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; 
How sweet it were in concert to adore 
With those who made our mortal labours light ! 
To hear each voice we fear’d to hear no more! 
Behold each mighty shade reveal’d to sight, 
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right ! 


IX. 


There, thou ! — whose love and life together fled, 
Have left me here to love and live in vain — 
Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead 
When busy Memory flashes on my brain ? 

Well — I will dream that we may meet again, 


44 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO li. 


And woo the vision to my vacant breast : 
If aught of young Remembrance then remain, 
Be as it may Futurity’s behest, 
For me ’twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest! 


χες 

Here let me sit upon this massy stone, 

The marble column’s yet unshaken base ; 

Here, son of Saturn! was thy fav’rite throne: (ἢ) 

Mightiest of many such! Hence let me trace 

The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. 

It may not be: nor ev’n can Fancy’s eye 

Restore what Time hath labour’d to deface. 

Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh ; 
Unmoved the Moslem sits, the hight Greek carols by. 


GE 
But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane 
On high, where Pallas linger’d, loath to flee 
The latest relic of her ancient reign ; 
The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he? 
Blush, Caledonia! such thy son could be! 
England! I joy no child he was of thine: 
Thy free-born men should spare what once was free, 
Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, 
And bear these altars o’er the long-reluctant brine. (*) 


XII. 
But most the modern Pict’s ignoble boast, 
To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared ; (*) 
Cold as the crags upon his native coast, 
His mind as barren and his heart as hard, 
is he whese head conceived, whose hand prepared, 
Aught to displace Athena’s poor remains 
Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, 
Yet felt some portion of their mother’s pains, (*) 
And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot’s chains. 


(1) The temple of Jupiter Olympius, of which sixteen columns, entirely of mar- 
ble, yet survive: originally there were 150. ‘These columns, however, are by ma- 
ny supposed to belong to the Pantheon. 

(2) The ship was wrecked in the Archipelago. 

(3) See Appendix to this Canto [A], for a note too long to be placed here. 

14) I cannot resist availing myself of the permission of my friend Dr. Clarke, 
whose name requires no comment with the public, but whose sanction will add ten- 
fold weight to my testimony, to insert the following extract from a very obliging let- 
ter of his to me, as a note to the above lines. ‘‘ When the last of the Metopes was 
taken from the Parthenon, and, in moving of it, great part of the superstructure with 


CANTO Il. PILGRIMAGE. 45 


XIII. 


What ! shall it e’er be said by British tongue, 

Albion was happy in Athena’s tears ? 

Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung, 

Tell not the deed to blushing Europe’s ears ; 

The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears 

The last poor plunder from a bleeding land: 

Yes, she, whose gen’rous aid her name endears, 

Tore down those remnants with a harpy’s hand, 
Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand. 


XIV. 


Where was thine AXgis, Pallas! that appall’d cage 
Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way 7 (’) 
Where Peleus’ son? whom Hell in vain enthrall’d, 
His shade from Hades upon that dread day 
Bursting to light in terrible array ! 
What! could not Pluto spare the chief once more, 
To scare a second robber from his prey ? 
Idly he wander’d on the Stygian shore, 
Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before. 


XY. 


Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on thee, 
Nor feels as lovers o’er the dust they loved ; 
Dull is the eye that will not weep to see 
Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed 
By British hands, which it had best behoved 
To guard those relics ne’er to be restored. 
Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, 
And once again thy hapless bosom gored, 
And snatch’d thy shrinking Gods to northern climes abhorr’d ! 


XVI. 


But where is Harold? shall I then forget 
To urge the gloomy wanderer o’er the wave ? 
Little reck’d he of all that men regret ; 


one of the triglyphs was thrown down by the workmen whom Lord Elgin employed, 
the Disdar, who beheld the mischief done to the building, took his pipe from his 
mouth, dropped a tear, and, in a supplicating tone of voice, said to Lusieri, Τέλος : 
— [ was present.” The Disdar alluded to was the father of the present Disdar. 


(1) According to Zosimus, Minerva and Achilles frightened Alaric from the 
Acropolis ; but others relate that the Gothic king was nearly as mischievous as the 
Scottish peer, See CHANDLER. 


46 


CHILDE HAROLD’S 


No loved-one now in feign’d lament could rave ; 
No friend the parting hand extended gave, 

Ere the cold stranger pass’d.to other climes : 
Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave ; 
But Harold felt not as in other times, 


And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. 


AVI. 


He that has sail’d upon the dark blue sea, 
Has view’d at times, I ween, a full fair sight ; 
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, 


~Lhe-white sail set, the gallant frigate tight ; 


Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right, 
The glorious. main expanding o’er the bow, 

The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight, 
The dullest sailor wearing bravely now, 


So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. 


XVIII. 


And oh, the little warlike world within! 

The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy, (’) 
‘The hoarse command, the busy humming din, 
When, at a word, the tops are mann’d on high: 
Hark to the Boatswain’s call, the cheering cry! 


While through the seaman’s hand the tackle glides ; 


Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by, 
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides, 


And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides. 


XIX. 


White is the glassy deck, without a stain, 

Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks : 
Look on that part which sacred doth remain 

For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks, 
Silent and fear’d by all — not oft he talks 

With aught beneath him, if he would preserve 
That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks 
Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely swerve 


CANTO fi. 


From law, however stern, which tends ‘heir strength to nerve. 


(1). ‘The netting to prevent blocks or splinters from falling on. deck during ac- 


tion. 


i 


CANTO II. PILGRIMAGE. 


. MX. 
Blow! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale !- 
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray ; 
‘Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, 

That lagging barks may make their lazy way. 
Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, 

To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze ! 
What leagues are lost, before the dawn of day, 
Thus loitermg pensive on the willing seas, 


The flapping sail haul’d down to halt for logs like these ! 


XXI. 


The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve ! 

Long streams of light o’er dancing waves expand ; 
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe : 
Such be our fate when we return to land ! 
Meantime some rude Arion’s restless hand 

Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love ; 

A circle there of merry listeners stand, _ 

Or to some well-known measure featly move, 


Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove. 


OEE: 


Through Calpe’s straits survey the steepy shore ; © 
Kurope and Afric on each other gaze ! 

Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor 
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate’s blaze : 

How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, 
Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, 


Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase : 


But Mauritania’s giant-shadows frown, 


From mountain-cliff to coast descending sombre dowz 


XXIII. 


"Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel 

We once have loved, though love is at an end : 
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, 
Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. 
Who with the weight of years would wish to bend, 
When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy ? 
Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend, 

Death hath but little left him to destroy ! 


Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a boy ? 


3 
CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO II, 


XXIV. 


Thus bending o’er the vessel’s laying side, 

To gaze on Dian’s wave-reflected sphere, 

The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride, 

And flies unconscious o’er each backward year. 

None are so desolate but something dear, 

Dearer than self, possesses or possess’d 

A thought, and claims the homage of a tear ; 

A flashing pang! of which the weary breast 
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. 


XXV. 
To sit on rocks, to muse o’er flood and fell, 
᾿ Toslowly trace the forest’s oto scene, 
Where things that own not man’s dominion dwell, 
And mortal foot hath ne’er or rarely been ; 
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold; 
Alone o’er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; 
This is not solitude ; ’tis but to hold 
Converse with Nature’s charms, and view her stores unroll’d. 


XXVI. 

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, 

To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, 

And roam along, the world’s tired denizen, 

With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; 

Minions of splendour shrinking from distress ! . 

None that, with kindred consciousness endued, 

If we were not, would seem to smile the less 

Of all that flatter’d, follow’d, sought, and sued, 
This is to be alone: this, this is solitude! 


XXVII. 


More blest the life of godly Eremite. 

Such as on lonely Athos may be seen, 

Watching at eve upon the giant height, 

Which looks o’er waves so blue, skies so serene. 

That he who there at such an hour hath been 

Will wistful linger on that hallow’d spot ; 

Then slowly tear him from the witching scene, 

Sigh forth one wish that such had been chic lot, 
Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. 


CANTO II. PILGRIMAGE, 


XXVIII. 


Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track 
Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind ; 

Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack, 
And each well known caprice of wave and wind ; 
Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, - 
Coop’d in their winged sea-girt citadel ; 

Tne foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, 

As breezes rise and fall and billows swell, 


Till on some jocund morn — lo, land! and all is well. 


XXIX. 
But not in silence pass Calypso’s isles, (ἢ) 
The sister tenants of the middle deep ; 
There for the weary still a haven smiles, 
Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to weep, 
And o’er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep 
For him who dared prefer a mortal bride : 
Here, too, his boy essay’d the dreadful leap 
Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide ; 


While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly sigh’d. 


XXX. 

Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone: 
But trust not this; too easy youth, beware ! 
A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, 
And thou may’st find a new Calypso there. 
Sweet Florence! could another ever share 
This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine : 
But check’d by every tie, I may not dare 
To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, 

Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. 


XXXI. 
Thus Harold deem’d, as on that lady’s eye 
He look’d, and met its beam without a thought, 
Save Admiration glancing harmless by : 
Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote, 
Who knew his votary often lost and caught, 
But knew him as his worshipper no more, 
And ne’er again the boy his bosom sought : 
Since now he vainly urged him to adore, 
Well deem’d the little God his ancient sway was o’er. 


(1) Goza is said to have been the island of Calypso. 
VOL. Iil.—-E 


49 


CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTOR 


XXXII. 


Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, 
One who, ’twas said, still sigh’d to all he saw, 
Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, 
Which others hail’d with real or mimic awe, 
Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law , 
All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims : 
And much she marvell’d that a youth so raw 
Nor felt, nor feign’d at least, the oft-told flames, 
Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger dames. 


XXXIII. 
Little knew she that seeming marble heart, 
Now mask’d in silence or withheld by pride, 
Was not unskilful in the spoiler’s art, 
And spread its snares licentious far and wide ; 
Nor from the base pursuit had turn’d aside, 
As long as aught was worthy to pursue : 
But Harold on such arts no more relied ; 
And had he doted on those eyes so blue, 

Yet never would he join the lover’s whining crew. 


XXXIV. 


Not much he kens, I ween, of woman’s breast, 
Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs ; 
What careth she for hearts when once possess’d 7 
Do proper homage to thine idol’s eyes ; 
But not too humbly, or she will despise 
Thee and thy suit, though told m moving tropes: 
Disguise ev’n tenderness, if thou art wise ; 
Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes ; 
Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion crowns thy hopes. 


XEXXKV. 


Tis an old lesson ; Time approves it true, 
And those who know it best, deplore it most ; 
When all is won that all desire to woo, 
The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost : 
Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost, 
These are thy fruits, successful Passion! these! 
If, kindly cruel, early Hope is crost, 
Still to the last it rankles, a disease, 

Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please. 


CANTO τ. PILGRIMAGE. &i 
; 
XXXVI. 
Away! nor let me loiter in my song, 
For we have many a mountain-path to tread, 
And many a varied shore to sail along, 

_ By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led — 
Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
imagined in its little schemes of thought ; 

Or e’er in new Utopias were read, 
‘To teach man what he might be, or he ought ; 
If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught. 


XXXVII. 


Dear Nature is the kindest mother still, 
Though always changing, in her aspect mild ; 
From her bare bosom let me take my fill, 
Ffer never-wean’d, though not her favour’d child. 
Oh! she is fairest in her features wild, 
Where nothing polish’d dares pollute her path : 
To me by day or night she ever smiled 
‘Though f have mark’d her when none other hath, 
And sought her more and more, and loved her best in wrath. 
ΧΧΧΥΠΙ. | 
Land of Albania! where Iskander rose, 
Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, 
And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes 
Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprize : 
Land of Albania! (*) let me bend mine eyes 
On thee! thou rugged nurse of savage men! 
The cross descends, thy minarets arise, 
And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, 
Through many a cypress grove within each other’s ken. 


XXXIX. 
Childe Harold sail’d, and pass’d the barren spot (°) 
Where sad Penelope o’erlook’d the wave ; 
And onward view’d the mount, not yet forgot, 
The lover’s refuge, and the Lesbian’s grave. 
Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal save 
That breast imbued with such immertal fire 1 
Could she not live who life eternal gave ? 
if life eternal may await the lyre, 
That only heaven to which Earth’s children may aspire. 


͵ 
‘ 
\ 


Ὁ See Appendix to this Canto, Note [B]. 


Ithaca, 


δῶ CHILDE HAROLD'S CANTO Il. 


pa 
Twas on a Grecian autumn’s gentle eve 


Childe Harold hail’d Leucadia’s cape afar ; 
A spot he long’d to see, nor cared to leave : 
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish’d war, 
Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar ; (’) 
Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight 
(Born beneath some remote inglorious siar) 
In themes of bloody fray or gallant fight, 
But loathed the bravo’s trade, and laughed at martial wight, 


XLI. 


But when he saw the evening star above 
Leucadia’s far-projecting rock of woe, 
And hail’d the last resort of fruitless love, (°) 
He felt, or deem’d he felt, no common glow : 
And as the stately vessel glided slow 
Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, 
He watch’d the billows’ melancholy flow, 
And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, 
More placid seem’d his eye, and smooth his pallid front. 


) 4 


XL. : 
Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania’s hills, 
Dark Suli’s rocks, and Pindus’ inland peak, 
Robed half in mist, bedew’d with snowy rills, 
Array’d in many a dun and purple streak, 
Arise; and, as the clouds along them break, 
Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer : 
Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak, 
Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, 

And gathering storms around convulse the closing year. 


XLIIl. 


Now Harold felt himself at length alone, 

And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu ; 

Now he adventured on a shore unknown, 

Which all admire, but many dread to view: 

His breast was arm’d ’gainst fate, his wants were few ; 


(1) Actium and Trafalgar need no further mention. The battle of Lepanto. 
equally bloody and considerable, but less known, was fought nm the Gulf of Patras 
Here the author of Don Quixote lost his left hand. 


(2) Leucadia, now Santa Maura. From the promentory (the Lover’s Leap) 
Sappho is said to have thrown herself. 


CANTO ἢ. PILGRIMAGE. 53 


Peril he sought not, but ne’er shrank to meet: 
The scene was savage, but the scene was new ; 
This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet. 
Beat back keen winter’s blast, and welcomed summer’s heat. 


XLIV. 


Here the red cross, for still the cross is here, 
Though sadly scoff’d at by the circumcised, 
Forgets that pride to pamper’d priesthood dear ; 
Churchman and votary alike despised. 
Foul Superstition! howsoe’er disguised, 
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, 
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized, 
Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss ! 

Who from true worship’s gold can separate thy dross ? 


ALV. 


Ambracia’s gulf behold, where once was lost 
A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing ! 
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
Did many a Roman chief and Asian king (ἢ) 
To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring : 
Look where the second Cxsar’s trophies rose ! (ἢ) 
Now, like the hands that rear’d them, withering : 
Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes ! 
Gop! was thy globe ordain’d for such to win and lose ἢ 


XLVI. 
From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, 
Ev’n to the centre of [llyria’s vales, 
Childe Harold pass’d o’er many a mount sublime, 
Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales ; 
Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales 
Are rarely seen: nor can fair Tempe boast 
A charm they know not; loved Parnassus fails 
Though classic ground and consecrated most, 
To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast. 


(1) Tt 1s said, that on the day previous to the battle of Actium, Anthony had 
thirteen kings at his levee. 


(2) Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, is at some distance from Actium, 
where the wall of thy Hippodrome survives in a few fragments, 


δά CHILDE HAROLD’S ΑΝ Τα Ik 


XLVII. 


He pass’d bleak Pindus, Acherusia’s lake, (*) 
And left the primal city of the land, 
And onwards did his further journey take 
To greet Albania’s chief, (7 whose dread command 
Is lawless law ; for with a bloody hand 
He sways a nation, turbulent and bold: 
Yet here and there some daring mountain-band 
Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. (°) 


XLVIII. 
Monastic Zitza ! (*) from thy shady brow, 
Thou small, but favour’d spot of holy ground! 
Where’er we gaze, around, above, below, 
What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found! 
Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound, 
And bluest skies that harmonise the whole : 
Beneath, the distant torrent’s rushing sound 
Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll 
Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the soul. 


ALIX. 


Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill, 
Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh 
Rising in lofty ranks, and lofter still, 
Might weil itself be deem’d of dignity, 
The convent’s white walls glisten fair on high: 
Here dwells the caloyer, (°) nor rude is he, 
Nor niggard of his cheer; the passer by 
Is welcome still ; nor heedless will he flee 

From hence, if he delight kind Nature’s sheen to see. 


(1) According to Pouqueville, the lake of Yanina ; but Pouqueville is always out. 


(2) The celebrated Ali Pacha. Of this extraordinary man there 15 an incorrect 
account in Pouqueville’s Travels. 


3) Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and in the castle of Suli, withstood 
30,000 Albanians for eighteen years; the castle at last was taken by bribery. In 
this contest there were several acts performed not unworthy of the better days of 
Greece. : 


(4) The convent and village of Zitza are four hours’ journey from Joannina, or 
Yanina, the capital of the Pachalick. In the valley of the river Kalamas (once the 
Acheron) flows, and, not far from Zitza, forms a fine cataract. The situation is per- 
haps the fest in Greece, though the approach to Delvinachi and parts of Acarno- 
nia and /tolia may contest the palm. Delphi, Parnassus, and, in Attica, even 
Cape Colonna and Port Raphti, are very inferior; as also every scene in Ionia, or 
the Troad: I am almost inclined to add the approach to Constantinople ; but, from 
the different features of the last, a comparison can hardly be made. 


(5) The Greek monks are so called. 


CANTO Ile PILGRIMAGE. 55 


Cte 


/ Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, _“* 


Le 
Here in the sultricst season let him rest, 
Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees ; 
Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast, 
From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze : 
The plain is far beneath — oh! let him seize 
Pure pleasure while he can; the scorching ray 
Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease : 
Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, 


And gaze, untired, the morn. the noon, the eve away. 


Li. ΤΩΝ 
Nature’s volcanic amphitheatre, og rar [parr AYK 
Chimeera’s alps extend from left to right: 

Beneath, a living valley seems to stir; 

Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain-fir 
Nodding above: behold black Acheron ! (ἢ) 

Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 

Pluto! if this be hell I look upon, 


Close shamed Elysium’s gates, my shade shal! seek for none. 


LU. 
Ne city’s towers pollute the lovely view ; 
Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, 
Veil’d by the screen of hills: here men are few, 
Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot ; 
But peering down each precipice, the goat 
Browseth; and, pensive o’er his scatter’d fiock, 
Ihe little shepherd in his white capote (ἢ) 
Doth lean his boyish form along the rock, 


Or in his cave awaits the tempest’s short-lived shock. 


1.111. 

Oh! where, Dodona! is thine aged grove, 
Prophetic fount, and oracle divine ? 

What valley echo’d the response of Jove ? 

What trace remaineth of the Thunderer’s shrine? 
All, all forgotten — and shall man repine 

That his frail bonds to flecting life are broke ? 
Cease, fool! the fate of gods may well be thine: 
Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak ? 


When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath the 


stroke ! 


(1) The Chimariot mountains appear to have been volcanic. 
(2) Now calied Kalamas, (3) Albanese cloak, 


EG CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO II 


LIV. 


Epirus’ bounds recede, and mountains fail ; 
Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye 
Reposes gladly on as smooth a yale, 
As ever Spring yclad in grassy die : 
Ey’n on a plain no humble beauties lie, 
Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, 
And woods along the banks are waving high, 
Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, 
Or with the moonbeam sleep in midnight’s solemn trance. 


LV. 


The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit, (’) 
And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by ; (*) 
The shades of wonted night were gathering yet, 
When, down the steep banks winding warily, 
Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, 
The glittering minarets of 'Tepalen, 
Whose wails o’erlook the stream ; and drawing nigh, 
He heard the busy hum of warrior-men 
Swelling the breeze that sigh’d along the lengthening glen. 


LVI. 


He pass’d the sacred Haram’s silent tower, 
And underneath the wide o’erarching gate 
Survey’d the dwelling of this chief of power, 
Where all arcund proclaim’d his high estate. 
Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, 
While busy preparation shook the court, 
Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait ; 
Within, a palace, and without, a fort : 
Here men of every elime appear to make resort. 


LVII. 


Richly caparison’d, a ready row 

Of armed horse, and many a warlike store, 
Circled the wide extending court below ; 
Above, strange groups adorn’d the corridore ; 


(1) Anciently Mount Tomarus. 


(2) The river Laos was full at the time the author passed it; and, immediately 
above Tepaleen, was to the eye as wide as the Thames at Westminster; at least in 
the opinion of the author and his fellow-traveller, Mr. Hobhouse. In the summer it 
must be much narrower. It certainly is the finest river in the Levant; neither 
Achelous, Alpheus, Acheron, Scamander, nor Cayster, approached it in breadth 
or beauty. 


CANTO II. PILGRIMAGE. 561 


And oft-times through the area’s echoing door, 
Some high-capp’d ‘Tartar spurr’d his steed away : 
The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, 
Here mingled in their many-hued array, 
While the deep war-drum’s sound announced the close of day. 


LVIII. 


The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, 

With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, 

And gold-embroider’d garments, fair to see : 

The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon ; 

The Delhi with bis cap of terror on, 

And crooked glaive ; the lively, supple Greek ; 

And swarthy Nubia’s mutilated son ; 

The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to speak, 
Master of all around, too potent to be meek, 


LIX. 


Are mix’d conspicuous: some recline in groups, 
Scanning the motley scene that varies round ; 
There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, 
And some that smoke, and some that play, are found ; 
Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground ; 
Half whispering there the Greek is heard to prate ; 
Hark! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound, 
The Muezzin’s call doth shake the minaret, 
“ There is no god but God! — to prayer — lo! God is great!” 


LX. 


Just at this season Ramazani’s fast 

Through the long day its penance did maintain : 

But when the lingering twilight hour was past, 

Revel and feast assumed the rule again : 

Now all was bustle, and the menial train 

Prepared and spread the plenteous board within ; 

The vacant gallery now seem’d made in vain, 

But from the chambers came the mingling din, 
As page and slave anon were passing out and in. 


LXI. 


Here woman’s yoice is never heard: apart, 
And scarce permitted, guarded, veil’d, to move, 
She yields to one her person and her heart, 
Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove: 


‘ 
- 


CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO II. 


For, not unhappy in her master’s love, 

And joyful in a mother’s gentlest cares, 

Blest eares! all other feelings far above! 

Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears, 
Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shares. 


LXITI. 


In marbled-paved pavilion, where a spring 
Of living water from the centre rose, 
Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, 
And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, 
Axt reclined, a man of war and woes: 
Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, 
While Gentleness her milder radiance throws 
Along that aged venerable face, 
The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace. 


LXIII. 


It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard 

ΠῚ suits the passions which belong to youth ; 

Love conquers age —- so Hafiz hath averr’d, 

So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth — 

But crimes that scorn the tender voice of Ruth, 

Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 

In years, have mark’d him with a tiger’s tooth ; 

Blood follows blood, and, through their mortal span 
En bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began. 


LXIV. 
*Mid many things most new to ear and eye 
The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, 
And gazed around on Moslem luxury, 
Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat 
Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat 
Of sated Grandeur from the city’s noise : 
And were it humbler it in sooth were sweet ; 
But Peace abhorreth artificial joys, 
And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both destroys. 


Law 
Fierce are Albania’s children, yet they lack 
Wot virtues, were those virtues more mature. 
Where is the foe that ever saw their back 7 
Who can so well the toil of war endure ? 


CANTO IL PILGRIMAGE. 59 


Their native fastnesses not more secure 

Than they in doubtful time of troublous need : 

Their wrath how deadly! but their friendship sure, 

When Gratitude or Valour bids them bleed, 
Unshaken rushing on where’er their chief may !ead. 


LXVI. 


Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain’s tower 
Thronging to war in splendour and success ; 
And after view’d them, when, within their power, 
Himself awhile the victim of distress ; 
That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press : 
But these did shelter him beneath their roof, 
When less barbarians would have cheer’d him less, 
And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof — (') 

In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the proof! 


LXVII. 

It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark 

Full on the coast of Suli’s shaggy shore, 

When all around was desolate and dark ; 

To land was perilous, to sojourn more ; 

Yet for a while the mariners forbore, 

Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk : 

At length they ventured forth, though doubting sore 

‘That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk 
Might once again renew their ancient butcher-work. 


LXVII. 


Vain fear! the Suliotes stretch’d the welcome hand, 
Led them o’er rocks and past the dangerous swamp, 
Kinder than polish’d slaves though not so bland, 
And piled the hearth, and wrung their garments damp, 
And fill’d the bowl, and trimm’d the cheerful lamp, 
And spread their fare ; though homely, all they had: 
Such conduct bears Philanthropy’s rare stamp — 
To rest the weary and to soothe the sad, 

Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least the bad. 


LXIX. 


It came to pass, that when he did address 
Himself:to quit at length this mountain-land, 


(1) Alluding to the wreckers of Cornwall, 


60 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO EL 


Combined marauders half-way barr’d egress, 
And wasted far and near with glaive and brand ; 
And therefore did he take a trusty band 
To traverse Acarnania’s forest wide. 
In war well season’d, and with labours tann’d, 
Till he did greet white Achelous’ tide, 

And from his farther bank Aitolia’s worlds espied. 


BKX. 
Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove, 
And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, 
How brown the foliage of the green hill’s grove, 
Nodding at midnight « o’er the calm bay’s breast, 
As winds come lightly whispering from the west, 
Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep’s serene : — 
Here Harold was received a welcome guest ; 
Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene, 
For many a joy could he from Night’s soft presence gican. 


EER. 

On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed, 

The feast was done, the red wine circling fast, (’) 

And he that unawares had there gazed 

With gaping wonderment had stared aghast ; 

For ere night’s midmost, stillest hour was past, 

The native revels of the troop began ; 

Each Palikar (*) his sabre from him cast, 

And bounding hand in hand, man link’d to man, 
Yelling their uncouth dirge, long daunced the kirtled clan. 


Lea. 
Childe Harold at a little distance stood 
And view’d, but not displeased, the revelrie, 
Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude : 
In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see 
Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee ; 
And, as the flames along their faces gleam’d, 
Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free, 
The long wild locks that to their girdles stream’d, 
While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half scream d:(*) 


(I) The Albanian Mussulmans do not abstain from wine, and, indeed very few of 
the others. 

(2) Palikar, shortened when addressed to a single person, from Παλίκαρι, a gene- 
ral name for a soldier amongst the Greeks and Albanese who speak Romaic — it 
means, properly ‘“ a Jad.” 

(3) For ἃ pecimen of the Albanian or Arnaout dialect of the Illyric, see Ap- 
pendix to this Canto, Note [6]. 


CANTO IL PILGRIMAGE. ΘΙ 


I. 
Tamupourei! Tambourgi! (0) thy ‘larum dai 
Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war 
All the sons of the mountains arise at the abi 
Chimariot, Ilvrian, and dark Suliote ! (Ὁ 


2. 


Oh! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 

In his snowy camese and his shagey capote ? 

To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock, 
And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock. 


3. 


Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 

The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live ? 

Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego? 
What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe ? 


4, 


Macedonia sends forth her invincible race ; 

For a time they abandon the cave and the chase : 
But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before 
The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o’er. 


5. 


Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves, 
And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves, 
Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, 
And track to his covert the captive on shore. 


6. 


T ask not the pleasures that riches supply, 

My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy 

Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair 
And many a maid from her mother shail tear. 


vp 


I love the fair face of the maid in her youth, 

Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall soothe: 
Let her bring from the chamber her many-toned lyre, 
And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 


(2) Drummer. 
(2) These Stanzas are partly taken from different Albanese songs, as fur as 
was able to make them out by the exposition of the Albanese in Romaic ‘and Italian. 


CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO {1 


8. 


Remember the moment when Previsa fell, (’) 

The shrieks of the conquer’d, the conquerors’ yell, 

The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared, 
The wealthy we slaughter’d, the lovely we spared. 


Ὁ: 


I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear : 

He neither must know who would serve the Vizier : 
Since the days of our prophet the Crescent ne’er saw 
A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw. 


10. 


Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, 
Let the yellow-hair’d (°) Giaours (*) view his horse-tail (* 
with dread ; 
When his Delhis (7) come dashing in blood o’er the banks, 
iow few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks ! 


ΤΊ: 


Selictar ! (°) unsheath then our chief’s scimitar: 
Tambourgi! thy ‘larum gives promise of war. 
Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore, 
Shail view us as victors, or view us no more! 


LXXITII. 


Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! (7) 
Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great! 
Who now shall lead thy scatter’d children forth, 
And long aecustom’d bondage uncreate 7 

Not such thy sons who whilome did await, 

The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 

In bleak Thermopylz’s sepulchral strait — 

Oh! who that gallant spirit shall resume, 


Leap from Eurotas’ banks, and call thee from the tomb ? 
p ᾽ 


(1) It was taken by storm from the French. 


(2) Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians. (3) Infidel. 
(4) Horse-tails are the insignia οἵ a Pacha. 
(5) Horsemen, answering to our forlorn hope. (6) Sword-bearer, 


(7) Some thoughts on this subject will be found in the Appendix to this Canto 
Note [D.] 


CANTO IL PILGRIMAGE. 63 


LXXIV. Mh 
f Spirit of freedom! when on Phyle’s brow (’) ver 


Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which now 

Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain 1 

Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, 

3ut every carle can lord it o’er thy land ; 

Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, 

Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, 
From birth till death enslaved ; in word, in deed, unmannid. 


LKXV. 


In all save form alone, how changed ! and who 
That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, 
Who but would deem their bosoms burn’d anew 
With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty ! 
And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
That gives them back their fathers’ heritage : 
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, 
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, 
Or tear their name defiled from Slavery’s mournful page. 


LXXVI. 


Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not 

Who would be free themselves must strike the blow ? 

By their right arms the conquest must be wrought? 

Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? no! 

True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, 

But not for you will Freedom’s altars flame. 

Shades of the Helots! triumph o’er your foe! 

Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same ; 
Thy glorious day is o’er, but not thine years of shame. 


LXXVII. 


The city won for Allah from the Giaour, 

The Giaour from Othman’s race again may wrest ; 
And the Serai’s impenetrable tower 

Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest ; (’) 

Or Wahab’s rebel brood who dared divest 

The prophet’s (*) tomb of all its pious spoil, 


εἰ) Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of Athens, has still considerable re- 
mains: it was seized by Thrasybulus previous to the expulsion of the Thirty. 
(2) When taken by the Latins, and retained for several years. —See ΟἼΒΒΟΝ. 


(3) Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago by the Wahabees, a sect 
rearly increasing, 


Thou sat’st with Thrasybulus and his train, or 


+ "bes "5 


64 CHILDE HAROLD’S ποτ 


May wind their path of blood along the West; 
But ne’er will freedom seek this fated soil, 
But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil. 


LXXVIII. 


Yet mark their mirth — ere lenten days begin, 
That penance which their holy rites prepare 
To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, 
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer ; 
But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear, 
Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all, 
To take of pleasaunce each his secret share, 
In motley robe to dance at masking ball, 

And join the mimic train of merry Carnival. 


LXXIX. 


And whose more rife with merriment than thine, 

Oh Stamboul! once the empress of their reign ἢ 

Though turbans now pollute Sophia’s shrine, 

And Greece her very altars eyes in vain : 

(Alas! her woes will still pervade my strain !) 

Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng, 

All felt the common joy they now must feign, 

Nor oft I’ve seen such sight, nor heard such song, 
As woo’d the eye, and thrill’d the Bosphorus along. 


LXXX. 


Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore, 
Oft Music changed, but never ceased her tone, 
And timely echo’d back the measured oar, 
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan : 
The Queen of tides on high consenting shone, 
And when a transient breeze swept o’er the wave, 
Twas, as if darting from her heavenly throne, 
A brighter glance her form reflected gave, 
Till sparkling billows seem’d to light the banks they lave 


LXXXI. 


Glanced many a light caique along the foam, 
Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, 
Ne thought had man or maid of rest or home, 
While many a languid eye and thrilling hand 
Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand, 


Cans i. PILGRIMAGE. 65 


Or gently prest, return’d the pressure still : 

Oh Love ! young Love! bound in thy rosy band, 

Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, 
These hours, and only these, redeem Life’s years of ill ! 


LXXXII. 


But, midst the throng in merry masquerade, 
Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, 
Even through the closest searment half betray’d ? 
To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain; 
To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd 
Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain : 
How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, 

And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud ! 


LXXXIII. 


This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece, 
If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast : 
Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace, 
The bondsman’s peace, who sighs for all he lost, 
Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, 
And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword: 
Ah! Greece! they love thee least who owe thee most ; 
Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record 
Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde! 


LXXXIV. 


When riseth Lacedemon’s hardihood, 
When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, 
When Athens’ children are with hearts endued, 
When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men, 
Then may’st thou be restored ; but not till then. 
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state ; 
An hour may lay it in the dust: and when 
Can man its shatter’d splendour renovate, 

Recal its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate? 


LXXXV. 
And yet how lovely in thine age of wo, 
Land of lost gods and godlike men! art thou! 
Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow, (ἢ) 


1) On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, the row never is entirely 
merited, notwithstanding the intense heat of the summer; but 1 never saw it lie On 
the plains, even in winter, 5 

ΤΟΙ. III.—-F 


66 CHILDE HAROLD’s Plucis ae 


Proclaim thee Nature’s varied favourite now ; 
Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, 
Commingling slowly with heroic earth, 
Broke by the share of every rustic plough : 
So perish monuments of mortal birth, 

So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth : 


LXXXVI. 


Save where some solitary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave; (ἢ) 
Save where Tritonia’s airy shrine adorns 
Colonna’s cliff, and gleams along the wave ; 
Save o’er some warrior’s half-forgotten grave, 
Where the gray stones and unmolested grass 
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, 
While strangers only not regardless pass, 
Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh “ Alas!” 


LXXXVII. 


Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild; 
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, 
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, 
And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields ; 
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, 
The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air ; 
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, 
Still in his beam Mendeli’s marbles glare ; 

Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair. 


LXXXVIII. 


Where’er we tread ’tis haunted, holy ground ; 

No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, 

But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, 

And all the Muse’s tales seem truly told, 

Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 

The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon: 

Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold 

Defies the power which crush’d thy temples gone : 
Age shakes Athena’s tower, but spares gray Marathon. 


(1) Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marble was dug that constructed the 
public edifices of Athens. — The modern name is Mount Mendeli. An immente 
cave, formed by the quarries, still remains, and will till the end of time. 


CANTO Il. PILGRIMAGE. hd 


LXXXIX. 


The sun. the soil, but not the slave, the same ; 
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord — 
Preserves alike its bounds and beundless fame 
The Battle-field, where Persia’s victim horde 
First bow’d beneath the brunt of Hellas’ sword, 
As on the morn to distant Glory dear, 
When Marathon became a magic word ; (’) 
Which utter’d, to the hearer’s eye appear 

The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror’s career. 


XC. 
The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow ; 
The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear ; 
Mountains above, Earth’s, Ocean’s plain below ; 
Death in the front, Destruction in the rear! 
Such was the scene — what now remaineth here ‘ 
What sacred trophy marks the hallow’d ground, 
Recording Freedom’s smile and Asia’s tear? 
The rifled urn, the violated mound, 
The dust thy courser’s hoof, rude stranger! spurns around. 


KOT. 

Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past 
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng ; 
Long shall the voyager, with th’ Ionian blast, 
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song ; 
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore ; 
Boast of the aged! lesson of the young! 
Which sages venerate and bards adore, 

As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. 


XCIl. 
The parted bosom clings to wonted home, 
If aught that ’s kindred cheer the welcome hearth ; 
He that is lonely, hither let him roam, 
And gaze complacent en congenial earth. 
Greece is no lightsome land of sccial mirth: 


(1) “ Siste Viator —heroa calcas!” was the epitaph on the famous Couns 
Merci; — what then must be our feelings when standing on the tumulus of the two 
hundred (Greeks) who fellon Marathon? The principal barrow has recently been 
opened by Fauvel: few or no relics, as vases, &c. were found by the excavator. 
The plain of Marathon was offered to me for sale at the sum of sixteen thousand 
piastres, about nine hundred pounds! Alas!—‘‘ Expende —quot libras in duce 
summ9s —inyenies!’?— was the dust of Miltiades worth no more? It could 
scarcely have fetched less if sold by weight. 


CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO τ. 


But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide, 
And scarce regret the region of his birth, 
When wandering slow by Delphi’s sacred side, 
Or gazing o’er the plains where Greek and Pers.an died. 


XCIIl. 


Let such approach this consecrated land, 

And pass in peace along the magic waste ; 

But spare its relics — let no busy hand 

Deface the scenes, already how defaced! 

Not for such purpose were these altars placed: 

Revere the remnants nations once revered: 

So may our country’s name be undisgraced, 

So may’st thou prosper where thy youth was rear’d, 
By every honest joy of love and life endear’d ! 


XCIV. 


For thee, who thus in too protracted song 

Hast soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays, 

Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng 

Of louder minstrels in these later days : 

To such resign the strife for fading bays — 

ΠῚ may such contest now the spirit move 

Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise ; 

Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, 
And none are left to please when none are left to love. 


XCV. 


Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one! 
Whom youth and youth’s affections bound to me ; 
Who did for me what none beside have done, 
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. 
What is my being? thou hast ceased to be! 
Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home, 
Who mourns o’er hours which we no more shall see — 
Would they had never been, or were to come! 
Would he had ne’er return’d to find fresh cause to roam ! 


XCVI. 


Oh! ever loving, lovely, and beloved! 

How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, 

And clings to thoughts now better far removed! 

But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. 

All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death! thou hast " 


CANTO Ii. PILGRIMAGE. 


The parent, friend, and now the more than friend : 

Ne’er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast, 

And grief with grief continuing still to blend, 
Hath snatch’d the little joy that life had yet to lend. 


XCVII. 


Then must I plunge again into the crowd, 
And follow all that Peace disdains te seek ? 
Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud, 
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, 
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak ; 
Still o’er the features, which perforce they cheer, 
To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique ; 
Smiles form the channel of a future tear, 

Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer. 


XCVIII. 


What is the worst of woes that wait on age ? 

What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow 2 

To view each loved one blotted from life’s page, 

And be alone on earth, as I am now. 

Before the Chastener humbly let me bow, 

O’er hearts divided and o’er hopes destroy’d : 

Roll on, vain days! full reckless may ye flow, 

Since Time hath reft whate’er my soul enjoy’d, 
And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy’d. 


99 


APPENDIX 


TO CANTO THE SECOND. 


Nore [A]. Seep. 44. 


“ To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared.” 
Stanza xii. line 2, 


Ar this moment, (January 3, 1809,) besides what has been already deposited 
in London, an Hydriot vessel is in the Pyrzus to receive every portable relic. Thus, 
as I heard a young Greek observe, in common with many of his countrymen — for, 

‘Jost as they are, they yet feel on this occasion — thus may Lord Elgin boast of hav- 
ing ruined Athens. An Italian painter of the first eminence, named Lusieri, is the 
agent of devastation ; and like the Greek finder of Verres in Sicily, who followed 
the same profession, he has proved the able instrument of plunder. Between this 
artist and the French Consul Fauvel, who wishes to rescue the remains for his own 
government, there is now a violent dispute concerning a car employed in their con- 
veyance, the wheel of which —I wish they were both broken upon it —has been 
locked up by the Consul, and Lusieri has laid his complaint before the Waywode. 
Lord Elgin has been extremely happy in his choice of Signor Lusieri, During a 
residence of ten years in Athens, he never had the curiosity to proceed as far as 
Sunium,* till he accompanied us in our second excursion. However, his works, as 


—_— 


* Now Cape Colonna. In all Attica, if we except Athens itself and Marathon, 
there is no scene more interesting than Cape Colonna. ‘To the antiquary and ar- 
tist, sixteen columns are an inexhaustible source of observation and design ; to the 
philosopher, the supposed scene of some of Plato’s conversations will not be unwel- 
come ; and the traveller will be struck with the beauty of the prospect over ‘“ Isles 
that crown the AEgean deep :”’ but for an Engiishman, Colonna has yet an additional 
interest, as the actual spot of Falconer’s Shipwreck. Pallas and Plato are forgotten. 
in the recollection of Falconer and Campbell : 


‘* Here in the dead of night by Lonna’s steep, 
The seaman’s cry was heard along the deep.” 


This temple of Minerva may be seen at sea froma great distance. Intwo journeys 
which I made, and one voyage to Cape Colonna, the view from either side, by land, 
was less striking than the approach from the isles. In our second land excursion, 
we had a narrow escape from a party of Mainotes, concealed in the caverns beneath. 
We were told afterwards, by one of their prisoners subsequently ransomed, that 
they were deterred from attacking us by the appearance of my two Albanians : con- 
jecturing very sagaciously, but falsely, that we had a complete guard of these Ar- 
naouts at hand, they remained stationary, and thus saved our party, which was too 
small to have opposed any effectual resistance. Colonna is no less a resort of 
painters than of pirates: there 


‘“* The hireling artist plants his paltry desk, 
And makes degraded nature picturesque.” 
(See Hodgson’s Lady Jane Gray, &c.) 
But there Nature, with the aid of Art, has done that for herself. I was fortunate 
enough to engage a very superior German artist ; and hope to renew my acquaint- 
ance with this and many other Levantine scenes, by the arrival of his performances. 


ΤᾺ APPENDIX TO 


far as they go, are most beautiful; but they are almost all unfinished. While he 
and his patrons confine themselves to tasting medals, appreciating cameos, sketch- 
ing columns, and cheapening gems, their little absurdities are as harmless as insect 
or fox-hunting, maiden speechifying, barouche-driving, or any such pastime; but 
when they carry away three or four shiploads of the most valuable and massy relies 
that time and barbarism have left to the most injured and most celebrated of c_ties ; 
when they destroy, in a vain attempt to tear down, those works which have been 
the admiration of ages, I know no motive which can excuse, no name which can 
designate, the perpetrators of this dastardly devastation. It was not the least of 
the crimes laid to the charge of Verres, that he had plundered Sicily, in the manner 
since imitated at Athens. The most unblushing impudence could hardly go farther 
than to affix the name of its plunderer to the walls of the Acropolis: while the wan- 
ton and useless defacement of the whole range of the basso-relievos, in one compart- 
ment of the temple, will never permit that name to be pronounced by an observer 
without execration. On this occasion I speak impartially : I am not a collector or 
admirer of collections, consequently no rival; but I have some early prepossession 
in favour of Greece, and do not think the honour of England advanced by plunder. 
whether of India or Attica. Another noble Lord has done better, because he has 
done less : but some others, more or less noble, yet ‘ all honourable men,” have 
done best, because, after a deal of excavation and execration, bribery to the Way- 
wode, mining and countermining, they have done nothing at all. We had such ink- 
shed, and wine-shed, which almost ended m bloodshed! Lord E.’s “ prig ᾽ — see 
Jonafaan Wylde for the definition of ‘‘ priggism ””—quarrelled with another, Gropius* 
by name, (a very good name too for his business,) and muttered something about 
satisfaction, in a verbal answer to a note of the poor Prussian: this was stated at 
table to Gropius, who laughed, but could eat no dimner afterwards. The rivals 
were not reconciled when I left Greece. I have reason to remember their squabble, 
tor they wanted to make me their arbitrator. 


Nore [B]. See p. 51. 


‘* Land of Albania! let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men!” 
Stanza xxxvill. lines 5 and 8. 


Albania comprises part of Macedonia, Illyria, Chaonia, and Epirus. Iskander 
is the Turkish word for Alexander; and the celebrated Scanderberg (Lord Alexan- 
der) is alluded to in the third and fourth lines of the thirty-eighth stanza. I do not 
know whether I am correct in making Scanderberg the countryman of Alexander, 
who was born at Pella in Macedon, but Mr. Gibbon terms him so, and adds Pyrrhus 
to the list, in speaking of his exploits. 

Of Albania Gibbon remarks, that a country ‘‘ within sight of Italy is less known 
than the interior of America.’? Circumstances, of little consequence to mention, 
led Mr. Hobhouse and myself into that country before we visited any other part of 
the Ottoman dominions ; and with the exception of Major Leake, then officially resi- 
dent at Joannina, no other Englishmen have ever advanced beyond the capital intu 
te interior, as that gentleman very lately assured me, Ali Pacha was at that time 


* This Sr. Gropius was employed by a noble Lord for the sole purpose of sketch- 
ing, in which he excels; but I am sorry to say, that he has, through the abused sanc- 
tion of that most respectable name, been treading at humble distance in the steps of 
Sr. Lusieri. A shipful of his trophies was detained, and I believe confiscated, at 
Constantinople, in 1810. I am most happy to be now enabled to state, that “ this 
was not in his bond;” thathe was emloyed solely as a painter, and that his noble 
yatron disavows all connexion with him, except as an artist. Ifthe error in the first 
and second edition of this poem has given the noble Lord a moment’s pain, I am 
very sorry for it: Sr. Gropius has assumed for years the name of his agent: and 
though I cannot much condemn myself for sharing in the mistake of so many, I am 
happy in being one of the first to be undeceived. Indeed, I have as much pleasure 
in contradicting this as I felt regret in stating it. 


CANTO THE SECOND. 73 


(October, 1809) carrying on war against Ibrahim Pacha, whom he had driven to 
Berat, a strong fortress which he was then besieging: on our arrival at Jcannina 
we were invited to T'epaleni, his highness’s birthplace, and favourite Serai, only one 
day’s distance from Berat; at this juncture the Vizier had made it his head-quarters. 

After some stay in the capital, we ‘accordingly followed; but though furnished 
with every accommodation, and escorted by one of the Vizier’s secretaries, we were 
nine days (on account of the rains) in accomplishing a journey which, on our re- 
turn, barely occupied four, 

On our route we passed two cities, Argyrocastro and Libochabo, apparently little 
inferior to Yanina in size; and no pencil or pen can ever do justice to the sconary 
% the vicinity of Zitza and Delvinachi, the frontier village of Epirus and Albania 

roper. 

On Albania and its inhabitants I am unwilling to descant, because this will be 
done so much better by my fellow-traveller, in a work which may probably precede 
this in publication, that I as little wish to follow as I would to anticipate him. But 
some few observations are necessary to the text. 

The Arnaouts, or Albanese, struck me forcibly by their resemblance to the High- 
landers of Scotland, in dress, figure, and manner of living. Their very mountains 
seemed Caledonian, with a kinder climate. The kilt, though white ; the spare, ac- 
tive form; their dialect, Celtic in its sound, and their hardy habits, all carried me 
back to Morven. No nation are so detested and dreaded by their neighbours as 
the Albanese ; the Greeks hardly regard them as Christians, or the Turks as Mos- 
lems ; and in fact they are a mixture of both, and sometimes neither. Their habits 
are predatory —all are armed; and the red-shawled Arnaouts, the Montenegrins, 
Chimariots, and Gegdes, are treacherous ; the others differ somewhat in garb, and 
essentially in character. _As far as my own experience goes, I can speak favour- 
ably. TI was attended by two, an Infidel and a Mussulman, to Constantinople and 
every other part of Turkey which came within my observation; and more faithful 
in peril, or indefatigable in service are rarely to be found. The Infidel was named 
Basilius, the Moslem, Dervish Tahiri; the former a man of middle age, and the 
latter about my own. Basili was strictly charged by Ali Pacha in person to attend 
us; and Dervish was one of fifty who accompanied us through the forests of Acar- 
nania to the banks of Achelous, and onward to Messalonghi in AXtolia. There I 
took him into my own service, und never had occasion to repent it till the moment 
of my departure. 

When in 1810, after the departure of my friend Mr. H. for England, I was seized 
with a severe fever in the Morea, these men saved my life by frightening away my 
physician, whose throat they threatened to cut if I was not cured within a given 
time. To this consolatory assurance of posthumous retribution, and a resolute re- 
fusal of Dr. Romanelli’s prescriptions, I attributed my recovery. I had left my last 
remaining English servant at Athens; my dragoman was as ill as myself, and my 
poor Arnaouts nursed me with an attention which would have done honour to civili- 
zation. ‘They had a variety of adventures; for the Moslem, Dervish, being a re- 
markably handsome man, was always squabbling with the husbands of Athens ; in- 
somuch that four of the principal Turks paid me a visit of remonstrance at the Con- 
vent, on the subject of his having taken a woman from the bath — whom he had 
lawfully bought however — a thing quite contrary to etiquette. 

Basili also was extremely gallant among his own persuasion, and had the greatest 
veneration for the church, mixed with the highest contempt of churchmen, whom he 
cuffed upon occasion in a most heterodox manner. Yet he never passed a church 
without crossing himself; and I remember the risk he ran in entering St. Sophia, in 
Stambol, because it had once been a place of his worship. On remonstrating with 
him on his inconsistent proceedings, he invariably answered, ** Our church is holy, 
our priests are thieves ;” and then he crossed himself as usual, and boxed the ears 
of the first ‘‘ papas ” who refused to assist in any required operation, as was always 
found to be necessary where a priest had any influence with the Cogia Bashi of his 
village. Indeed, a more abandoned race of miscreants cannot exist than the lower 
orders of the Greek clergy. 

When preparations were made for my return, my Albanians were summoned to 
receive their pay. Basili took his with an awkward show of regret at my intended 
departure, and marched away to his quarters with his bag of piastres. I sent for 
Dervish, but for some time he was not to be found; at last he entered, just as Sig- 
nor I.ogotheti, father to the ci-devant Anglo-consul of Athens, and some other of 
my Greek acquaintances, paid me a visit. Dervish took the money, but on a sud- 
den dashed it to the ground ; and clasping his hands, which he raised to his forehead, 


74 APPENDIX TO 


rushed out of the room, weeping bitterly. From that moment to the hour of my 
embarkation, he continued his lamentations, and all our efforts to console him only 
produced this answer, “Μά ¢gevet,” “ΗΔ leaves me.” Signor Logotheti, who 
never wept before for any thing less than the loss of a para (about the fourth of a 
farthing), melted; the padre of the convent, my attendants, my visitors — and I 
verily believe that even Sterne’s ‘‘ foolish fat scullion ” would have left her ‘ fish- 
kettle,” to sympathize with the unaffected and unexpected sorrow of this barbarian. 

For my own part, when I remembered that, a short time before my departure 
from England, a noble and most intimate associate had excused himself from taking 
leave of me because he had to attend a relation ‘‘ to a milliner’s,”’ I felt no less sur- 
prised than humiliated by the present occurrence and the past recollection. 

That Dervish would leave me with some regret was to be expected: when master 
and man have been scrambling over the mountains of a dozen provinces together, 
they are unwilling to separate ; but his present feelings, contrasted with his native 
ferocity, improved my opinion of the human heart. I believe this almost feudal fide- 
lity is frequent among them. One day, on our journey over Parnassus, an English- 
man in my service gave hima push in some dispute about the baggage, which he 
unluckily mistook for a blow; he spoke not, but sat down leaning his head upon his 
hands. Foreseeing the consequences, we endeavoured to explain away the affront, 
which produced the following answer: — ‘‘I have been a robber; I am a soldier ; 
no captain ever struck me; you are my master, I have eaten your bread, but by 
that bread! (an usual oath) had it been otherwise, I would have stabbed the dog 
your servant, and gone to the mountains.” So the affair ended, but from that day 
forward he never thoroughly forgave the thoughtless fellow who insulted him. 

Dervish excelled in the dance of his country, conjectured to be a remnant of the 
ancient Pyrrhic: be that as it may, it is manly, and requires wonderful agility. It 
is very distinct from the stupid Romaika, the dull round-about of the Greeks, of 
which our Athenian party had so many specimens. 

The Albanians in general (I do not mean the cultivators of the earth in the pro- 
vinces, who have also that appellation, but the mountaineers) have a fine cast of 
countenance: and the most beautiful women I ever beheld, in stature and in fea- 
tures, we saw levelling the road broken down by the torrents between Delvinachi 
and Libochabo. ‘Their manner of walking is truly theatrical; but this strut is pro- 
bably the effect of the capote, or cloak, depending from one shoulder. Their jong 
hair reminds you of the Spartans, and their courage in desultory warfare is unques- 
tionable. Though they have some cavalry amongst the Gegdes, I never saw a good 
Arnaout horseman; my own preferred the English saddles, which, however, they 
could never keep. But on foot they are not to be subdued by fatigue. 


Nore [C]. See p. 60. 


‘¢ While thus in concert,” ὅτε. 
Stanza Ixxii. line last. 


As a specimen of the Albanian or Arnaout dialect of the Illyric, I here insert two 
of their most popular choral songs, which are generally chanted in dancing by men 
or women indiscriminately. The first words are merely a kind of chorus without 
meaning, like some in our own and all other languages. 


di 1. 
Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo. Lo, Lo, I come, I come; be thou 
Naciarura, popuso. silent. 

2, 5 
Naciarura na civin come, I run; open the door that I 
Ha pen derini ti hin. may enter. 

3. 3. 
Ha pe uderi escrotini Open the door by halves, that I may 


Ti vin ti mar servetini. take my turban, 


CANTO 


4. 
Caliriote me surme 
Ea ha pe pse dua tive. 


5. 
Buo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 
Gi egem spirta esimiro, 
6 


Caliriote vu le funde 
Ede vete tunde tunde. 


hs 
Caliriote me surme 
Ti mi put 6 poi mi le. 
8. 
Se ti puta citi mora 
Si mi ri ni veti udo gia, 


9. 
Va le ni il che cadale 
Celo more, more celo. 


10. 
Plu hari ti terete 
Plu huron cia pra set. 


THE SECOND. 


Caliriotes* with the dark eyes, open 
the gate, that I may enter. 


Lo, lo, I hear thee, my soul. 


6. 
An Arnaout girl, in costly garb, 
walks with graceful pride. 


7. 
Caliriot maid of the dark eyes, give 
me a kiss. 


8. 
If I have kissed thee, what hast 
thou gained ? My soul is consum- 
ed with fire. 


Dance lightly, more gently, and 
gently sul. 


10. 
Make not so much dust to destroy 
your embroidered hose. 


The last stanza would puzzle a commentator: the men have certainly buskins of 
the most beautiful texture, but the ladies (to whom the above is supposed to be ad- 
dressed) have nothing under their little yellow boots and sbppers but a well-turned 
and sometimes very white ankle. The Arnaout giris are much handsomer than the 
Greeks, and their dress is far more picturesque. ‘They preserve their shape much 
longer also, from being always in the open air. It is to be observed, that the Ar- 
naout 15 not a written language ; the words of this song, therefore, as well as the one 
which follows, are spelt according to their pronunciation. They are copied by one 
who speaks and uncerstands the dialect perfectly, and who is a native of Athens. 


I am wounded by thy love, and have 
loved but to scorch myself. 


Ndi sefda tinde u:avossa 
Vettimi upri vi lofsa. 
ἊΣ ὯΝ 
Ah vaisisso mi privi lofse Thou hast consumed me! Ah, 
Si mi rini mi la vosse. maid! thou hast struck me to the 
heart. 


3. 3. 
Uti tasa roba stua I nave said I wish no dowry, but 
Sitti eve tulati dua. thine eyes and eye-lashes. 


4, 4. 
Roba stinori ssidua The accursed dowry I want not, 
Qu mi sini vetti dua. but thee only. 


ὃ. 
Qurmini dua civileni 
Roba ti siarmi tildi eni. 


6. 
Utara pisa vaisisso me 
simi rin ti hapti 
Et mi bire a piste si gui 
dendroi tiltati. 


Give me thy charms, and let the 
portion feed the flames. 


I have loved thee, maid, with a sin- 
cere soul, but thou hast left me 
like a withered tree. 


* The Albanese, particularly the women, are frequently termed “ Caliriotes ;” 
for what reason I inquired in vain. 


8 APPENDIX TO 


Ie τι 
Udi vura udorini udiri ci- If Ihave placed my hand on thy 
cova cilti mora bosom, what have I gained? my 
Udorini talti hollna u ede hand is withdrawn, but retains 
eaimoni mora. the flame. 


I believe the two last stanzas, as they are in a different measure, ought to belong 
to another ballad. An idea something similar to the thought in the last lines wag 
expressed by Socrates, whose arm having come in contact with one of his ‘‘ ὑποκολ- 
zzot,”” Critobulus or Cleobulus, the philosopher complained of a shooting pain as 
far as his shoulder for some days after, and therefore very properly resolved to teach 
his disciples in future without touching them. 


Nore [D]. See p. 62. 


“© Far Greece! sad relic of departed worth! 
Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great!” 


Stanza Ixxiii. lines 1. and 2. 


ils 


Before [I say any thing about a city of which every body, traveller or not, has 
thought it necessary to say something, I will request Miss Owenson, when she next 
borrows an Athenian heroine for her four volumes, to have the goodness to marry 
her to somebody more of a gentleman than a ‘‘ Disdar Aga,” (who by the by is not 
an Aga,) the most impolite of petty officers, the greatest patron of larceny Athens 
ever saw, (except Lord E.) and the unworthy occupant of the Acropolis, on a hand- 
some annual stipend of 150 piastres, (eight pounds sterling,) out of which he has 
only to pay his garrison, the most ill-regulated corps in the ill-regulated Ottoman 
Empire. I speak it tenderly, seeing I was once the cause of the husband of ‘ Ida 
of Athens” nearly suffering the bastinado; and because the said ‘‘ Disdar” is a 
turbulent husband, and beats his wife; so that I exhort and beseech Miss Owenson 
to sue for a separate maintenance in behalf of ‘‘ Ida.” Having premised thus much, 
on a matter of such import to the readers of romances, I may now leave Ida, to 
mention her birthplace. 

Setting aside the magic of the name, and all those associations which it would be 
pedantic and superfluous to recapitulate, the very situation of Athens would render 
it the favourite of all who have eyes for art or nature. The climate, to me at least, 
appeared a perpetual spring; during eight months I never passed a day without be- 
ing as many hours on horseback: rain is extremely rare, snow never lies in the 
plains, and a cloudy day is an agreeable rarity. InSpain, Portugal, and every part 
of the East which I visited, except Ionia and Attica, I perceived no such superiority 
of climate to our own; and at Constantinople, where I passed May, June, and part 
of July, (4810,) you might “damn the climate, and complain of spleen,” five days 
out of seven. 

The air of the Morea is heavy and unwholesome, but the moment you pass the 
isthmus in the direction of Megara the change is strikingly perceptible. But I fear 
Hesiod will still be found correct in his description of a Beeotian winter. 

We found at Livadia an “ esprit fort” in a Greek bishop, of all free-thinkers ! 
This worthy hypocrite rallied his own religion with great intrepidity, (but not before 
his flock,) and talked of a mass as ἃ “‘coglioneria.” It was impossible to think 
better of him for this; but, for a Beotian, he was brisk with all his absurdity, — 
This phenomenon (with the exception indeed of Thebes, the remains of Chzronea, 
the plain of Platea, Orchomenus, Livadia, and its nominal cave of Trophonius) was 
the only remarkable thing we saw before we passed Mount Cithzron. 

The fountain of Dirce turns a mill: at least my companion (who, resolving to be 
at once cleanly and classical. bathed in it) pronounced it to be the fountain of Dirce, 
and any body who thinks it worth while may contradict him. At Castri we drank 
of half a dozen streamlets, some not of the purest, before we decided to our satis- 
‘action which was the true Castalian, and even that had a villanous twang, proba- 


CANTO THE SECOND. 77 


bly from the snow, though it did not throw us into an epic fever, like poor Dr. 
Chandler. 

From Fort Phyle, of which large remains still exist, the Plain of Athens, Pente- 
licus, Hymettus, the /Egean, and the Acropolis, burst upon the eye at once ; in my 
opinicn, a more glorious prospect than even Cintra or Istambol. Not the view from 
the Troad, with Ida, the Hellespont, and the more distant Mount Athos, can equal 
it, though so superior in extent. 

I heard much of the beauty of Arcadia, but excepting the view from the monas- 
tery of Megaspelion, (which is inferior to Zitza in a command of country,) and the 
descent from the mountains on the way from Tripolitza to Argos, Arcadia has little 
to recommend it beyond the name. 


“ Sternitur, et dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos.” 


Virgil could have put this into the mouth of none but an Argive, and (with reve- 
rence be it spoken) it does not deserve the epithet. And if the Polynices of Statius, 
“Tn mediis audit duo litora campis,” did actually hear both shores in crossing the 
isthmus of Corinth, he had better ears than have ever been worn in sucha journey 
since. 

“ Athens,” says a celebrated topographer, ‘‘is still the most polished city of 
Greece.” Perhaps it may of Greece, but not of the Greeks; for Joannina in Epirus 
is universally allowed, amongst themselves, to be superior in the wealth, refinement, 
learning, and dialect of its inhabitants. The Athenians are remarkable for their 
cunning ; and the lower orders are not improperly characterized in that proverb, 
which classes them with ‘‘ the Jews of Salonica, and the Turks of the Negropont.” 

Among the various foreigners resident in Athens, French, Italians, Germans, 
Ragusans, &c. there was never a difference of opinion in their estimate of the 
Greek character, though on all other topics they disputed with great acrimony, 

M. Fauvel, the French consul, who has passed thirty years principally at 
Athens, and to whose talents as an artist and manners as a gentleman, none who 
have known him can refuse their testimony, has frequently declared in my hearing, 
that the Greeks do not deserve to be emancipated ; reasoning on the grounds of 
their “‘ national and individual depravity !”’ while he forgot that such depravity is to 
be attributed to causes which can only be removed by the measure he reprobates, 

M. Roque, a French merchant of respectability long settled in Athens, asserted 
with the most amusing gravity, ‘‘ Sir, they are the same canaille that existed in the 
days of Themistocles !” an alarming remark to the ‘‘ Laudator temporis acti.” The 
ancients banished 'Themistocles; the moderns cheat Monsieur Roque: thus great 
men have ever been treated! 

In short, all the Franks who are fixtures, and most of the Englishmen, Germans, 
Danes, &c. of passage, came over by degrees to their opinion, on much the same 
grounds that a Turk in England would condemn the nation by wholesale, because 
he was wronged by his lacquey, and overcharged by his washerwoman. 

Certainly it was not a little staggering when the Sieurs Fauvel and Lusieri, the 
two greatest demagogues of the day, who divide between them the power of Peri- 
cles and the popularity of Cleon, and puzzle the poor Waywode with perpetual dif- 
ferences, agreed in the utter condemnation, ‘ nulla ,virtute redemptum,” of the 
Greeks in general, and of the Athenians in particular. 

For my own humble opinion, I am loth to hazard it, knowing as I do, that there 
be now in MS. no less than five tours of the first magnitude and of the most threat- 
ening aspect, all in typographical array, by persons of wit, and honour, and regular 
common-place books: but, if I may say this without offence, it seems to me rather 
hard to declare so positively and pertinaciously, as almost every body has declared, 
that the Greeks, because they are very bad, will never be better. 

Eton and Sonnini have led us astray by their panegyrics and projects; but, on 
the other hand, De Pauw and Thornton have debased the Greeks beyond their 
demerits. 

The Greeks will never be independent ; they will never be sovereigns as hereto- 
fore, and God forbid they ever should! but they may be subjects without being 
tlaves. Our colonies are not independent, but they are free and industrious, and 
such may Greece be hereafter. 

At present, like the Catholics of Ireland and the Jews throughout the world, and 
such other cudgelled and heterodox people, they suffer all the moral and physicai 
ills that can afflict humanity. Their life is a struggle against truth; they are vi- 
cious in their own defence. They are so unused to kindness, that when they occa- 


78 APPENDIX TO 


sionally meet with it they look upon it with suspicion, as a dog often beaten snaps 
at your fingers if you attempt to caress him. ‘“ They are ungrateful, notoriously, 
abominably ungrateful !”? —this is the general ery. Now, in the name of Nemesis! 
for what are they to be grateful? Where is the human being that ever conferred a 
benefit on Greek or Greeks? ‘They are to be grateful to the Turks for their fet- 
ters, and to the Franks for their broken promises and lying counsels. They are to 
be grateful to the artist who engraves their ruins, and to the antiquary who carries 
‘hem away ; to the traveller whose janissary flogs them, and to the scribbler whose 
journal abuses them! ‘This is the amount of their obligations to foreigners. 


i: 
Franciscan Convent, Athens, January 23. 1811. 


Amongst the remnants of the barbarous policy of the earlier ages, are the traces of 
bondage which yet exist in different countries ; whose inhabitants, however divided 
in religion and manners, almost all agree in oppression. 

The English have at Jast compassionated their Negroes, and under a less bigoted 
government, may probably one day release their Catholic brethren: but the inter- 
position of foreigners alone can emancipate the Greeks, who, otherwise, appear to 
have as small a chance of redemption from the Turks, as the Jews have from man- 
kind in general. 

Of the ancient Greeks we know more than enough; at least the younger men of 
Europe devote much of their time to the study of the Greek writers and history, 
which would be more usefully spent in mastering their own, Of the moderns. we 
are perhaps more neglectful than they deserve ; and while every man of any pre- 
tensions to learning 15 tiring out his youth, and often his age, in the study of the 
language and of the harangues of the Athenian demagogues in favour of freedom, 
the real or supposed descendants of these sturdy republicans are left to the actual 
eran of their masters, although a very slight effort is required to strike off their 
chains. 

To talk, as the Greeks themselves do, of their rising again to their pristine supe- 
riority, would be ridiculous ; as the rest of the world must resume its barbarism, 
after reasserting the sovereignty of Greece: but there seems to be no very great 
obstacle, except in the apathy of the Franks, to their becoming an useful depen- 
dency, or even a free state with a proper guarantee ; — under correction, however, 
be it spoken, for many and well-informed men doubt the practicability even of this. 

VYhe Greeks have never lost their hope, though they are now more divided 1 
opinion on the subject of their probable deliverers. Religion recommends the Rus- 
sians ; but they have twice been deceived and abandoned by that power, and the 
dreadful lesson they received after the Muscovite desertion in the Morea has ne, <r 
been forgotten. The French they dislike ; although the subjugation of the rest of 
Europe will, probably, be attended by the deliverance of continental Greece. The 
islanders look to the Englishyfor succour, as they have very lately possessed them- 
selves of the Ionian republic, Corfu excepted. But whoever appear with arms in 
their hands will be welcome; and when that day arrives, Heaven have mercy on 
the Ottomans, they cannot expect it from the Giaours. 

But instead of considering what they have been, and speculating on what they 
may be, Jet us look at them as they are. 

And here it is impossible to reconcile the contrariety of opinions: some, particu- 
-arly the merchants, decrying the Greeks in the strongest language; others, gene- 
rally travellers, turning periods in their eulogy, and publishing very curious specu- 
lations grafted on their former state, which can have no more effect on their present 
lot, than the existence of the Incas on the future fortunes of Peru. 

One very ingenious person terms them the “ natural allies of Englishmen ;” 
another, no less ingenious, will not allow them to be the allies of any body, and de- 
nies their very descent from the ancients ; a third, more ingenious than either, 
builds a Greek empire on a Russian foundation, and realizes (on paper) all the 
chimeras of Catherine IT. As to the question of their descent, what can it import 
whether the Mainotes are the lineal Laconians or not ὁ or the present Athenians 
as indigenous as the bees of Hymettus, or as the grasshoppers, to which they once 
likened themselves? What Englishman cares if he be of a Danish, Saxon, Norman, 


CANTO THE SECOND. 79 


or Trojan blood? or who, except a Welshman, is afflicted with a desire of being 
descended from Caractacus ? 

The poor Greeks do not so much abound in the good things of this world, as to 
render even their claims to antiquity an object of envy; it is very cruel, then, in 
Mr. Thornton to disturb them in the possession of all that time has left them; viz. 
their pedigree, of which they are the more tenacious, as it is all they can call their 
own. It would be worth while to publish together, and compare, the works of 
Messrs. Thornton and De Pauw, Eton 3nd Sonnini; paradox on one side, and 
prejudice on the other. Mr. Thornton conceives himself to have claims to public 
confidence from a fourteen years’ residence at Pera; perhaps he may on the sub- 
ject of the Turks, but this can give him no more insight into the real state of Greece 
and her inhabitants, than as many years spent in Wapping into that of the Western 
Highlands. 

The Grecks of Constantinople live in Fanal; and if Mr. Thornton did not oftener 
cross the Golden Horn than his brother merchants are accustomed to do, I should 
place no great reliance on his information. I actually heard one of these gentlemen 
boast of their little general intercourse with the city, and assert of himself, with an 
air of triumph, that he had been but four times at Constantinople in as many years. 

As to Mr. Thornton’s voyages in the Black Sea with Greek vessels, they gave 
him the same idea of Greece as a cruise to Berwick in a Scotch smack would of 
Johnny Grot’s house. Upon what grounds then does he arrogate the right of con- 
demning by wholesale a body of men, of whom he can know little? It is rather a 
curious circumstance that Mr. Thornton, who so lavishly dispraises Pouqueville on 
every occasion of mentioning the Turks, has yet recourse to him as authority on 
the Greeks, and terms him an impartial observer. Now Dr. Pouqueville 1s as little 
entitled to that appellation, as Mr. Thornton to confer it on him. 

The fact is, we are deplorably in want of information on the subject of the Greeks, 
and in particular their literature, nor is there any probability of our being better ac- 
quaint, till our intercourse becomes more intimate, or their independence con- 

rmed: the relations of passing travellers are as little to be depended on as the in- 
vectives of angry factors; but till something more can be attained, we must be con- 
tent with the little to be acquired from similar sources.* 

However defective these may be, they are preferable to the paradoxes of men 
who have read superficially of the ancients, and seen nothing of the moderns, such 
as De Pauw; who, when he asserts that the British breed of horses is ruined by 
Newmarket, and that the Spartans were cowards in the field, betrays an equal 
knowledge of English horses and Spartan men. His ‘ philosophical observations ” 
have a much better claim to the title of “ poetical.” It could not be expected that 
he who so liberally condemns some of the most celebrated institutions of the an- 
cient, should have mercy on the modern Greeks ; and it fortunately happens, that 


* A word, en passant, with Mr. Thornton and Dr. Pouqueville, who have been 
guilty between them of sadly clipping the Sultan’s Turkish. 

Dr. Pouqueville tells a long story of a Moslem who swallowed corrosive sublimate 
in such quantities that he acquired the name of ‘‘ Suleyman Yeyen,” i, e. quoth the 
Doctor, ‘‘ Suleyman, the eater of corrosive sublimate.” ‘‘ Aha,’ thinks Mr. Thorn- 
ton, (angry with the Doctor for the fiftieth time,) ‘‘ have I caught you?” — Then, 
in a note twice the thickness of the Doctor’s anecdote, he questions the Doctor’s 
proficiency in the Turkish tongue, and his veracity in his own, — “‘ For,” observes 
Mr. Thornton, (after inflicting on us the tough participle of a Turkish verb.) “ it 
means nothing more than Suleyman the eater,” and quite cashiers the supplementary 
ἐς sublimate.” Now both are right, and both are wrong. If Mr. Thornton, when 
he next resides “‘ fourteen years in the factory,” will consult kis Turkish dictionary, 
or ask any of his Stamboline acquaintance, he will discover that ‘* Suleyma’n ye- 
yen,” put together discreetly, mean the ‘‘ Swallower of sublimate,” without any 
ἐς Suleyman” in the case: “ Suleyma” signifying “ corrosive sublimate,” and not 
being a proper name on this occasion, although it be an orthodox name enough with 
the addition of x. After Mr. Thornton’s frequent hints of profound Orientalism, he 
might have found this out before he sang such peans over Dr. Pouqueville. 

After this, I think “ Travellers versus Factors” shall be om motto, though the 
above Mr. Thornton has condemned ‘ hoc genus omne,” for mistake and misrepre- 
sentation. ‘* Ne Sutor ultra crepidam,” ‘‘ No merchant beyond his bales.” N. 
B. For the benefit of Mr, Thornton, “ Sutor ” is not a proper name. 


80 APPENDIX TO 


the absurdity of his hypothesis on their forefathers refutes his sentence on them- 
selves. 

Let us trust, then, that, in spite of the prophecies of De Pauw, and the doubts of 
Mr. Thornton, there 1s a reasonable hope of the redemption of a race of men, who, 
whatever may be the errors of their religion and policy, have been amply punished 
by three centuries and a half of captivity. 


r 


III. 


Athens, Franciscan Convent, March 17, 1811. 


‘*T must have some talk with this learned Theban.” 


Some time after my return from Constantinople to this city, I received the thirty- 
first number of the Edinburgh Review as a great favour, and certainly at this dis- 
tance an acceptable one, from the captain of an English frigate off Salamis. In 
that number, Art. 3. contaming the review of a French translation of Strabo, there 
are introduced some remarks on the modern Greeks and their literature, with a short 
account of Coray, a co-translator in the Frenchversion. On those remarks I mean 
to ground a few observations, and the spot where I now write will, I hope, be suffi- 
cient excuse for introducing them in a work in some degree connected with the sub- 
ject. Coray, the most celebrated of living Greeks, at least among the Franks, was 
born at Scio, (in the Review, Smyrnais stated, I have reason to think, incorrectly.) 
and, besides the translation of Beccaria and other works mentioned by the Review- 
er, has published a Lexicon in Romaic and French, if I may trust the assurance of 
some Danish travellers lately arrived from Paris; but the latest we have seen here 
in French and Greek is that of Gregory Zolikogloou.* Coray has recently been 
involved in an unpleasant controversy with Mr. Gail, a Parisian commentator and 
editor of some translations from the Greek poets, in consequence of the Institute 
having awarded him the prize for his version of Hippocrates ‘‘ Περί tédrov,” &c, to 
the disparagement, and consequently displeasure, of the said Gail. To his exer- 
tions, literary and patriotic, great praise is undoubtedly due, but a part of that praise 
ought not to be withheld from the two brothers Zosimado, (merchants settled in 
Leghorn,) who sent him to Paris, and maintained him for the express purpose of 
elucidating the ancient, and adding to the modern, researches of his countrymen. 
Coray, however, is not considered by his countrymen equal to some who lived in 
the two last centuries ; more particularly Dorotheus of Mitylene, whose Hellenic 
writings are so much esteemed by the Greeks that Meletius terms him, ‘‘ Μετὰ τὸν 
Θουκυδίδην καὶ Ἐενοφώντα ἄριστος “Ἑλλήνων. (P. 224. Ecclesiastical History, 
vol. iv. 

Beeson Kodrikas, the translator of Fontenelle, and Kamarases, who translat- 
ed Ocellus Lucanus on the Universe into French, Christodoulus, and more par- 
ticularly Psalida, whom Γ have conversed with in Joannina, are also in high repute 
among their literati. The last-mentioned has published in Romaic and Latin a 
work on ‘‘ True Happiness,” dedicated to Catherine II. But Polyzois, who is stat- 
ed by the Reviewer to be the only modern except Coray who has distinguished 
himself by a knowledge of Hellenic, if he be the Polyzois Lampanitziotes of Yanina, 
who has published a number of editions in Romaic, was neither more nor less than 
an itinerant vender of books; with the contents of which he had no concern beyond 
his name on the title-page, placed there to secure his property in the publication ; 
and he was, mereoyer, a man utterly destitute of scholastic acquirements, As the 


* T have in my possessio : 


n 
in exchange from 8. G—, E 
forgotten it, or forgiven me. 


{ In Gail’s pamphlet against Coray, he talks of ‘‘ throwing the insolent Hellenist 
out of the windows.” On this a French critic exclaims, ‘‘ Ah, my God! throw an 
Hellenist out of the window! what sacrilege!’’ It certainly would be a serious 
business for those authors who dwell in the attics: but I have quoted the passage 
merely to prove the similarity of style among the controversialists of all polished 
countries; Londen or Edinburgh could hardly para!lel this Parisian ebulition. 


an excellent Lexicon ‘ τριγλωσσον.,᾽ which 1 received 
sq. for a small gem: my antiquarian friends have never 


CANTO THE SECOND. 81 


name, however, is not uncommon, some other Polyzois may have edited the Epis- 
tles of Aristsenetus. 

It is to be regretted that the system of continental blockade has closed the few 
channels through which the Greeks received their publications, particularly Venice 
and Trieste. toe the common grammars for children are become too dear for the 
lower orders. Amongst their original works the Geography of Meletius, Arch- 
bishop of Athens, and a multitude of theological quartos and poetical pamphlets, are 
to be met with ; their grammars and lexicons of two, three, and four languages, are 
numerous and excellent. Their poetry is in rhyme. The most singular piece | 
have lately seen is a satire in dialogue between a Russian, English, and French 
traveller, and the Waywode of Wallachia, (or Blackbey, as they term a) an 
archbishop, a merchant, and Cogia Bachi, (or primate,) in succession ; to all of 
whom under the Turks the writer attributes their present degeneracy. Their songs 
are sometimes pretty and pathetic, but their tunes generally unpleasing to the ear 
ofa Frank: the best is the famous ‘* Δεύτε παῖδες τῶν ‘EAAjvwr,” by the unfortunate 
Riga. But froma catalogue of more than sixty authors, now before me, only fifteen 
can be found who have touched on any theme except theology. 

I am intrusted with a commission by a Greek of Athens, named Marmarotouri, to 
make arrangements, if possible, for printing in London a translation of Barthelemi’s 
Anacharsis in Romaic, as he has no other opportunity, unless he despatches the 
MS. to Vienna by the Black Sea and Danube. 

The Reviewer mentions a school established at Hecatonesi, and suppressed at’ 
the instigation of Sebastiani; he means Cidonies, or, in Turkish, Haivali; a νη 
on the continent, where that institution for a hundred students and three professors 
still exists. It is true that this establishment was disturbed by the Porte, under the 
ridiculous pretext that the Greeks were constructing a fortress instead of a college : 
but on investigation, and the payment of some purses to the Divan, it has been per- 
mitted to continue. The principal professor, named Ueniamin, (1. e. Benjannn,) is 
stated to be a man of talent, but a freethinker. He was born in Lesbos, studied in 
Italy, and is master of Hellenic, Latin, and some Frank languages ; besides a smat- 
tering of the sciences. 

Though it is not my intention to enter farther on this topic than may allude to the 
article in question, I cannot but observe that the Reviewer’s lamentation over the 
fall of the Greeks appears singular, when he closes it with these words: ‘ The 
change is to be attributed to their misfortunes rather than to any ‘ physical degrada- 
tion.” It may be true that the Greeks are not physically degenerated, and that 
Constantinople contained, on the day whenit changed masters, as many men of six 
feet and upwards as in the hour of prosperity; but ancient history and modern poli- 
tics instruct us that something more than physical perfection is necessary to preserve 
a state in vigour and independence ; and the Greeks, in particular, are a melancholy 
example of the near connexion between moral degradation and national decay. 

The Reviewer mentions a plan, ‘“ we believe”? by Potemkin, for the purification of 
the Romaic, and I have endeavoured in vain to procure any tidings or traces of its 
existence. There was an academy in St. Petersburgh for the Greeks; but it was 
suppressed by Paul, and has not been revived by his successor. 

There is a slip of the pen, and it can only be a slip of the pen, in p. 58, No. 3], 
of the Edinburgh Review, where these words occur :—‘‘ We are told that when the 
capital of the East yielded to Solyman”—lIt may be presumed that this last word 
will, in a future edition, be altered to Mahomet II.* The “ ladies of Constantinople,” 


* In a former number of the Edinburgh Review, 1808, it 1s observed: ‘‘ Lord 
Byron passed some of his early years in Scotland, where he might have learned that 
pibroch does not mean a bagpipe, any more than duet means a fiddle.” Cuuery.— 
Was it in Scotland that the young gentlemen of the Edinburgh Review learned that 
Solyman means Mahomet IT. any more than criticism means infallibility 2—but thus 
it 15. 

“ Coedimus inque vicem prebemus crura sagittis.” 

The mistake seemed so completely a lapse of the pen (from the great similarity of 
the two words, and the total absence of error from the former pages of the literary 
Jeviathan) that I should have passed it over as in the text, had I not perceived in the 
Edinburgh Review much facetious exultation on all such detections, particularly a 
recent one, where words and syllables are subjects of disquisition and transposition ; 
and the above-mentioned parallel passage in my own case irresistibly propelled me 
to hint how much easier it 1s to be critica! than correct. The gentlemen, having en 


VOL. II.—G 


82 APPENDIX TO 


it seems, at that period spoke a dialect, “ which would not have disgraced the 
lips of an Athenian.” I do not know how that might be, but am sorry to say the 
ladies in general, and the Athenians in particular, are much altered ; being far from 
choice Bee in their dialect or expressions, as the whole Attic race are barbarous to 
a proverb : 


“Ὁ, AOnva προτη χωρὰ 
Te γαιδαρους τρῴεις τωρα" 


Τὰ Gibbon, vol. x. p. 161, is the following sentence : — “ ‘The vulgar dialect of the cx» 
was gross end barbarous, though the compositions of the church and palace some- 
limes affected to copy the purity of the Attic models.” Whatever may be asserted 
on the subject, it is difficult to conceive that the ‘‘ ladies of Constantinople,” in the 
reign of the last Czesar, spoke a purer dialect than Anna Comnena wrote three 
centuries before: and those royal pages are not esteemed the best models of com- 
position, although the princess yAwrray eryev AKPIBQE Αττικιζουσαν. In the Fanal, 
and in Yanina, the best Greek is spoken: in the latter there is a flourishing schoo! 
under the direction of Psalida. 

There is now in Athens a pupil of Psalida’s, who is making a tour of observation 
through Greece: he is intelligent, and better educated than a fellow-commoner of 
most colleges. I mention this as a proof that the spirit of inquiry is not dormant 
araong the Greeks. 

The Reviewer mentions Mr. Wright, the author of the beautiful poem ‘“ Hore 
fonice,”’ as qualified to give details of these nominal Romans and degenerate Greeks, 
and also of their language: but Mr. Wright, though a good poet and an able man, 
has made a mistake where he states the Albanian dialect of the Romaic to approxi- 
. mate nearest to the Hellenic: for the Albanians speak a Romaic as notoriously cor- 
rupt as the Scotch of Aberdeenshire, or the Italian of Naples. Yanina, (where 
next to the Fanal, the Greek is purest,) although the capital of Ali Pacha’s domi- 
nions, is not in Albania but Epirus; and beyond Delvinachiin Albania Proper, up 
io Argyrocrastro and ‘Tepaleen, (beyond which I did not advance,) they speak worse 
Greek than even the Athenians. I was attended for a year and a half by two of 
these singular mountaineers, whose mother tongue is Lllyric, and I never heard 
them or their countrymen (whom I have seen, not only at home, but to the amount 
of twenty thousand in the army of Vely Pacha) praised for their Greek, but often 
laughed at for their provincial barbarisms. 

[have in my possession about twenty-five letters, amongst which some from theBey 
of Corinth, written to me by Notaras, the Cogia Bachi, and others by the dragoman 
of the Caimacam of the Morea, (which last governs in Vely Pacha’s absence,) are 
said to be favourable specimens of their epistolary style: Lalso received some at 
Constantinople from private persons, written in a most hyperbolical style, but in the 
true antique character. 

The Reviewer proceeds, after some remarks on the tongue in its past and present 
state, to a paradox (page 59) on the great mischief the knowledge of his own lan- 
guage has done to Coray, who, it seems, is less likely to understand the ancient 
Greek, because he is perfect master of the modern! ‘This observation follows a 
paragraph, recommending, in explicit terms, the study of the Romaic, as ‘‘ a power- 
ful auxiliary,” not only to the traveller and foreign merchant, but also to the classical 
scholar ; in short, to every body except the only person who can be thoroughly ac- 
quainted with its uses; and by a parity of reasoning, our old language is conjectured 
to be probably more attainable by “ foreigners,” than by ourselves! Now. lam in- 
clined to think ,that a Dutch Tro in our tongue (albeit himself of Saxon blood) would 
be sadly perplexed with “ Sir Tristrem,” or any other given ‘* Auchinleck MS.” with 
or without a grammar or glossary ; and to most apprehensions it seems evident that 
none but a native can acquire a competent, far less complete, knowledge of our obso- 
lete idioms. We may give the critic credit for his ingenuity, but no more believe 
him than we do Smollett’s Lismahago, who maintains that the purest English is 
spoken in Edinburgh. ‘That Coray may err is very possible; but if he does, the 
fault is in the man rather than in his mother tongue, which is, as it ought to be, of 
the greatest aid to the native student.—Here the Reviewer proceeds to business on 
Strabo’s translators, and here I close my remarks. 

Sir W. Drummond, Mr. Hamilton, Lord Aberdeen, Dr. Clarke, Captain Leake, 
Mr. Gell, Mr. Walpole, and many others now in England, have all the requisites to 


joyed many a triumph on such victories, will hardly begrudge me a slight ovation for 
the present. 


CANTO THE SECOND. 83 


furnish details of this fallen people. The few observations I have offered I should 
have left where I made them, had not the article in question, and above all the spot 
where I read it, induced me to advert to those pages, which the advantage of my 
present situation enabled me to clear, or at least to make the attempt. 

{ have endeavoured to wave the personal feelings, which rise in despite of me in 
touching upon any part of the Edinburgh Review; not from a wish to conciliate 
the favour of its writers, or to cancel the remembrance of a syllable I have formerly 
published, but simply from a sense of the impropriety of mixing up private resent- 
ments with a disquisition of the present kind, and more particularly at this distance 
of time and place. 


ADDITIONAL NOTE, 
ON THE TURKS. 


The difficulties of travelling in Turkey have been much exaggerated, or rather 
have considerably diminished of late years. The Mussulmans have been beaten 
into a kind of sullen civility, very comfortable to voyagers. 

It is hazardous to say much on the subject of Turks and Turkey ; since it is possible 
to live among them twenty years without acquiring information, at least from them- 
selves. As far as my own slight experience carried me, I have no complaint to 
make; but am indebted for many civilities, (I might almost say for friendship,) and 
much hospitality, to Ali Pacha, his son Veli Pacha of the Morea, and several 
others of high rank in the provinces. Suleyman Aga, late Governor of Athens, and 
now of Thebes, was a bon vivant, and as social a being as ever sat cross-legged ai a 
tray or a table. During the carnival, when our English party were masquerading, 
both himself and his successor were more happy to “ὁ receive masks” than any 
dowager in Grosvenor-square. 

On one occasion of his supping at the convent, his friend and visitor, the Cadi of 
Thebes, was carried from table perfectly qualified for any club in Christendom ; 
while the worthy Waywode himself triumphed in his fall. 

In all money transactions with the Moslems, I ever found the strictest honour, 
the highest disinterestedness. In transacting business with them, there are none of 
those dirty peculations, under the name of interest, difference of exchange, commis- 
sion, &c. &c. uniformily found in applying to a Greek consul to cash bills, even on 
the first houses in Pera, 

With regard to presents, an established custom in the East, you will rarely find 
yourself a loser; as one worth acceptance is generally returned by another of similar 
value—a horse, or a shawl. 

In the capital and at court the citizens and courtiers are formed in the same school 
with those of Christianity ; but there does not exist a more honourable, friendly, 
and high-spirited character than the true Turkish provincial Aga, or Moslem country 
gentleman. It is not meant here to designate the governors of towns, but these 
Agas who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess lands and houses, of more or less ex- 
tent, in Greece and Asia Minor. 

The lower orders are in as tolerable discipline as the rabble in countries with 
greater pretensions to civilization. A Moslem, in walking the streets of our country 
towns, would be more incommoded in England than a Frank in a similar situation 
in Turkey. Regimentals are the best travelling dress. 

The best accounts of the religion and different sects of Islamism, may be found 
in D’Ollison’s French ; of their manners, &c. perhaps in Thornton’s English. The 
Ottomans, with all their defects, are not a people to be despised. Equal, at least, 
to the Spaniards, they are superior to the Portuguese. If it be difficu/t to pronounce 
what they are, we can at least say what they are not: they are not treacherous, 
they are not cowardly, they do not burn heretics, they are nof assassins, nor has an 
enemy advanced to their capite!. They are faithful to their sultan till he becomes 
unfit to govern, and devout to their God without an inquisition. Were they driven 
from St. Sophia to-morrow, and the French or Russians enthroned in their stead, 
it would become a question, whether Europe would gain by the exchange? England 
‘would certainly be the loser. 

With regard to that ignorance of which they are so genorally, and sometimes 


54 APPENDIX TO 


justly accused, it may be doubted, always excepting France and Engiand, in wna 
useful points of knowledge they are excelled by other nations. Is it in the common 
arts of life? In their manufactures? Is a Turkish sabre inferior to a Toledo? or 
is a Turk worse clothed or lodged, or fed and taught, than a Spaniard? Are their 
Pachas worse educated than a Grandee? or an Effendithan a Knight of St. Jago? 
I think not. 

I remember Mahmout, the grandson of Ali Pacha, asking whether my fellow-tra- 
veller and myself were in the upper or lower House of Parliament. Now, this 
question from a boy of ten years old proved that his education had not been neglected. 
It may be doubted if an English boy at that age knows the difference of the Divan 
froma College of Dervises ; but I am very sure a Spaniard does not. How little 
Mahmout, surrounded, as he had been, entirely by his Turkish tutors, had learned 
that there was such a thing as a Parliament, it were useless to conjecture, unless we 
suppose that his instructors did not confine his studies to the Koran. 

In all the mosques there are schools established, which are very regularly attend- 
ed; and the poor are taught without the church of Turkey being put into peril. } 
helieve the system is not yet printed ; (though there is such a thing as a Turkish 
wress, and books printed on the late military institution of the Nizam Gedidd :) nor 
xave [ heard whether the Mufti and the Mollas have subscribed, or the Caimacam 
and the Tefterdar taken the alarm, for fear the ingenuous youth of the turban should 
be taught not to ‘‘ pray toGod their way.” The Greeks also—a kind’ of Eastern 
Irish papists —- have a college of their own at Maynooth—no, at Haivali; where 
the heterodox receive much the same kind of countenance from the Ottoman as the 
Catholic college from the English legislature. Who shall then affirm that the Turks 
are ignorant bigots, when they thus evince the exact proportion of Christian charity 
which is tolerated in the most prosperous and orthodox of all possible kingdoms 7 
But, though they allow all this, they will not suffer the Greeks to participate in their 
privileges : no, let them fight their battles, and pay their haratch, (taxes,) be drub- 
bed in this world, and damned in the next. And shall we then emancipate our Irish 
Helots ? Mahomet forbid! We should then be bad Mussulmans, and worse Chris- 
tians ; at present we unite the best of both—jesuitical faith, and something not much 
inferior to Turkish toleration. 


Amone an ensiaved people, obliged to have recourse to foreign presses even for 
their books of religion, it is less to be wondered at that we find so few publications 
on general subjects than that we find any at all. The whole number of the Greeks, 
scattered up and down the Turkish empire and elsewhere, may amount, at most, to 
three millions: and yet, for so scanty a number, it is impossible to discover any nation 
with so great a proportion of books and their authors, as the Greeks of the present 
century. ‘‘ Ay,” but say the generous advocates of oppression, who, while they 
assert the ignorance of the Greeks, wish to prevent them from dispelling it, ‘‘ ay, but 
these are mostly, if not all, ecclesiastical tracts, and consequently good for nothing.” 
Well. and pray what else can they write about? It is pleasant enough to hear a 
Frank, particularly an Englishman, who may abuse the government of his own 
eontry; ora Frenchman, who may abuse every government except his owr, and 
“ho may range at will over every philosophical, religious, scientific, skeptical, or - 
mora! subject, sneering at the Greek legends. A Greek must not write on politics, 
and cannot touch on science for want of instruction; if he doubts, he is excommuni- 
cated and damned ; therefore his countrymen are not poisoned with modern philoso- 
phy ; and as to morals, thanks tothe Turks! there are no such things. What then 
is left him, if he has a turn for scribbling? Religion, and holy biography : and it is 
natural enough that those who have so Tittle in this life should look to the next. It 
is no great wonder then that in a catalogue now before me of fifty-five Greek writers, 
many of whom were lately living, not above fifteen should have touched on any 
thing but religion. The catalogue alluded to is contained in the twenty-sixth chap- 
ter of the fourth volume of Meletius’s Ecclesiastical History. From this I subjoin 
an extract of those who have written on general subjects ; which will be followed by 
some specimens of the Romaic. 


CANTO THE SECOND. 85 


LIST OF ROMAIC AUTHORS.* 


Neophitus, Diakonos (the deacon) of the Morea, has published an extensive 
grammar, and also some political regulations, which last were left unfinished at his 
death, 

Prokopius, of Moscopolis, (a town in Epirus,) has written and published a cata- 
logue of the learned Greeks. 

Seraphin, of Periclea, is the author of many works in the Turkish language, but 
Greek character ; for the Christians of Caramania, who do not speak Romaic, but 
read the character. 

Eustathius Psalidas, of Bucharest, a physician, made the tour of England for the 
purpose of study (χάριν μαθήσεως) : but though his name is enumerated, it is not 
stated that he has written any thing. 

Kallinikus Torgeraus, Patriarch of Constantinople: many poems of his are ex- 
tant, and also prose tracts, and a catalogue of patriarchs since the last taking of Con- 
stantinople. 

Anastasius Macedon, of Naxos, member of the royal academy of Warsaw. A 
church biographer. 

Demetrius Pamperes, a Moscopolite, has written many works, particularly “* A 
Commentary on Hesiod’s Shield of Hercules,” and two hundred tales, (of what is 
not specified,) and has published his correspondence with the celebrated George οἵ 
Trebizond, his cotemporary. 

Meletius a celebrated geographer ; and author of the book from whence these no- 
tices are taken. 

Dorotheus, of Mitylene, an Aristotelian philosopher: his Hellenic works are in 
great repute, and he is esteemed by the moderns (I quote the words of Meletius) 
μετὰ τὸν Θουκυδίδην καί Ἐενοφώντα ἀριστος “Ελλήνων. Ladd further, on the authority 
of a well-informed Greek, that he was so famous among his countrymen, that they 
were accustomed to say, if Thucydides and Xenophon were wanting, he was capa- 
ble of repairing the loss. 

Marinus Count Tharboures, of Cephalonia, professor of chemistry in the academy 
of Padua, and member of that academy, and those of Stockholm and Upsal. He 
has published, at Venice, an account of some marine animal, and a treatise on the 
properties of iron. 

Marcus, brother to the former, famous in mechanics. He removed to St. Peters- 
burgh the immense rock on which the statue of Peter the Great was fixed in 1769. 
See the dissertation which he published in Paris, 1777. 

George Constantine has published a four-tongued lexicon. 

George Ventote; a lexicon in French, Italian, and Romaic. 

There exist several other dictionaries in Latin and Romaic, French, &c. besides 
grammars in every modern lauguage, except English. 

Among the living authors the following are most celebrated :—} 

Athanasius Parios has written a treatise on rhetoric in Hellenic. 

Christodoulos, an Acarnanian, has published, in Vienna, some physical treatises in 
Hellenic, 

Panagiotes Kodrikas,an Athenian, the Romaic translator of Fontenelle’s ‘‘ Plu- 
rality of Worlds,” (a favourite work amongst the Greeks,) is stated to be a teacher 
of the Hellenic and Arabic languages in Paris ; in both of which he is an adept. 

Athanasius, the Parian, author of a treatise on rhetoric. 

Vicenzo Damodos, of Cephalonia, has written “ εἰς τὸ μεσοθάρθαρον, on logic and 
physics. 

_ John Kamarases, a Byzantine, has translated into French Ocellus on the Uni- 
verse. He is said to be an excellent Hellenist, and Latin scholar. 

Gregorio Demetrius published, in Vienna, a geographical work: he has aso 
translated several Italian authors, and printed his versions at Venice. 

Of Coray and Psalida some account has been already given. 


* It is to be observed, that the names given are not in chronological order, but 
consist of some selected at a venture from among those who flourished from the taking 
of Constantinople to the time of Meletius. 

ἡ These names are not taken from any publication. 


S6 APPENDIX TO 


GREEK WAR SONG.* 
i 


AEY’TE, παῖδες τῶν “Ελλήνωγ'" 

ὃ καῖρος τῆς δόζης ἦλθεν, 
ἂς φανῶμεν ἀξιοι ἐκείνων 

ποῦ μᾶς δῶσαν τὴν ἀρχήν" 
"As πατήσομεν ἀνδρείως 

τὸν ξυγὸν τῆς τυραννίδος. 
Ἔκδικήσωμεν πατρίδος 

καθ᾽ ὄνειδος αἰσχρόν. 
Ta ὅπλα ἂς λάδωμεν 

παῖδες Ελλήνων ἄγωμεν : 
ποταμιδὼν ἐχθρῶν τὸ αἷμα 

ἂς τρέζη ὑπὸ ποδών. 

9 


me 


“Ὅθεν εἶσθε τῶν “Ἑλλήνων 
κόκκαλα ἀνδρειομένα, 
πνεύματα ἔσκυρπισμενα, 
τώρα λάθετε πνοὴν ; 
στην φωνὴν τῆς σαλπιλκός pov ; 
συναχθήτε ὅλα δμου" 
τὴν ἐπτάλοφον ζητεῖτε, 
καὶ νικᾶτε πρὸ παντοῦ. 
Ta ὅπλα as λάθωμεν, &e. 
3y 
Σπάρτα, Σπάρτα, τί κοιμᾶσθε 
ὕπνον λήθαργον βαθὺν ; 
ξύπνησον κραξε ᾿Αθήνας 
σύμμαχον παντοτεινήν. 
᾿Ενθυμειθητε Λεοννίδου 
ἤρωος τοῦ ξακοστου, 
τοῦ ἀνὸρὸς ἐπαινεμένου. 
φοθεροῦ καὶ τρομεροῦ. 
Τὰ ὄπλα ἂς λάθωμεν, &e. 
4, 


Ὃ xov εἰς τάς Θερμοπύλας 

πόλεμον αὐτὸς κροτεῖ, 
καὶ τοὺς Πέρσας ἀφανίζει 

δ > ~ x‘ ~ 

και αὑτων KATA Κρατεῖ * 
Μέτριακοσίους ἀνδρας 

εἰς τὸ κέντρον πρόχωρει, 
καὶ ὡς λέων θυμώμενος, 

εἰς τὸ αἷμα τῶν βουτεῖ. 

Ta ὅπλα ἂς λάθωμεν, &c. 


ROMAIC EXTRACTS. 


Pwosus, ΓἌγκλος, kai Τάλλος κάμνοντες τὴν περιήγησιν τῆς "Ἑλλάδος, καὶ βλέποντες τὴν 
ἀθλίαν τὴν κατάστασιν, εἰρώτησαν καταρχὰς ἕνα Τραικὸν Russe: διὰ νὰ μά- 
θουν τὴν αἰτίαν, μετ᾽ αὐτὸν ἕνα μητροπολίτην, εἶτα ἕνα βλάχμτπειν, ἔπειτα ξνα 
πραγματευτὴν͵ καὶ ἕνα προεστῶτα. 

Εἰπέ μας @ φιλέλληνα, τῶς φέρεις τὴν σκλαθίαν 
καὶ τὴν ἀπαρίγορητον τῶν ' Τούρκων τυραννίαν 5 
πῶς ταῖς ξυλαῖς καὶ ὑδρισμοὺς καὶ σηδηροδεσμίαν 
παίδων, παρϑένων, γυναικὼν ἀνήκουστον φθορεῖαν ; 
ini ina ee τ eines alee ΣῊ OR IN. MIE AS εἰ πω YA 2 CG Oe ee eee 


* A translation of this song will be found among the smaller Poems. 


CANTO THE SECOND. 87 


Δὲν εἶσϑαι ἐσεῖς ἀπογονοι ἐκείνων τῶν “Ελλήνων 
τῶν ἐλευθέρυν Kai σοφῶν καὶ τῶν φιλοπατρίδων " 
καὶ πῶς ἐκεῖνοι ἀπέθνησκον διὰ τὴν ἐλευθερίαν, 
καὶ τώρα ἐσεῖς ὑπούκεισθαι εἰς τέτοιαν τυραννίαν, 
καὶ ποῖον γένος ὡς ἐσεῖς ἐστάθη φωτισμένον 

εἰς τὴν σοφίαν, δύναμην, εἰς κ᾽ ὅλα ζακουσμένον " 
πῶς νῦν ἔκαταστήσατε τὴν φωτινην “Ελλάδα. 
Baba! ὡς ἕνα σκέλεθρον, ὡς σκοτεινὴν λαμπάδαν' 
“Ομίλει, φίλτατε Τραικέ, εἰπέ μας τὴν αἰτίαν : 

μὴ κρύπτης τίποτης ἡμῶν, λύε τὴν ἀπορίαν. 


‘O ΦΙΛΕΓΛΑΛΗΝΟΣ. 


“Ῥωσσ-αγκλο-γαλλοι, “Ελλὰς, καὶ ὄχι ἄλλοι, 
ἦτον, ὡς λέτε, τόσον μεγάλη, 

~ ἂν , ἘΠ , 
viv δὲ ἀθλία, καὶ ἀναξία 

249 ἀν , € Ὅν) ΄ 
ἀφ᾽ φοὺ ἀρχίσεν ἡ ἀμαθία. 
ὃστ᾽ ἠμποροῦσαν νὰ τὴν ξυπνήση 
τοῦτ᾽ εἰς τὸ χειρον τὴν δδηγοῦσι 
αὐτὴ στενάξει τὰ τέκνα κράξει, 
στό να προκόπτουν ὅλα προστάξει 
καὶ τότε ἐλπίζει ὅτι κερδίξει. 
εὑρεῖν, ὁποῦ χει νῦν τὴν φλογίξει 
Μά" ὄστις τολμήση va τὴν ξυπνήση 
πάγει στὸν ἄδην χωρίς τινα κρίσιν. 


The above is the commencement of a long dramatic satire on the Greek priesthood, 
princes, and gentry ; it is contemptible as a composition, but perhaps curious as a 
specimen of their rhyme: I have the whole in MS. but this extract will be found 
sufficient. The Romaic in this composition is so easy as to render a version an 
insult to a scholar; but those who do not understand the original will excuse the fol- 
lowing bad translation of what is in itself indifferent. 


TRANSLATION. 


A Russian, Enghshman, and Frenchman making the tour of Greece, and observing 
the miserable state of the country, interrogate, in turn, a Greek Patriot, to learn 
the cause ; afterwards an Archbishop, then a Vlackbey,* a Merchant, and Cogia 
Bacht or Primate. 


Thou friend of thy country! to strangers record 
Why bear ye the yoke of the Ottoman Lord ? 
Why bear ye these fetters thus tamely display’d, 
The wrongs of the matron, the stripling, and maid ? 
The descendants of Hellas’s race are not ye! 
The patriot sons of the sage and the free, 

Thus sprung from the blood of the noble and brave, 
To vilely exist as the Mussulman slave! 

Not such were the fathers your annals can boast, 
Who conquer’d and died for the freedom you lost! 
Not such was your land in her earlier hour, 

The day-star of nations in wisdom and power! 
And still will you thus unresisting increase, 

Oh shameful dishonour! the darkness of Greece ? 
Then tell us, beloved Achean! reveal 

The cause of the woes which you cannot conceal. 


‘I'he reply of the Philellenist I have not translated, as it is no better than the ques- 
tion of the travelling triumvirate; and the above will sufficiently show with what 
kind of composition the Greeks are now satisfied. J trust I have not much iujured 
the original in the few lines given as faithfully, and as near the 


‘Oh, Miss Bailey! unfortunate Miss Bailey!” 


* Viackbey, Prince of Wallachia. 


88 APPENDIX TO 


measure of the Romaic, as I could make them. Almost all their pieces, above a 
song, which aspire to the name of poetry, contain exactly the quantity of feet of. 


‘* A captain bold of Halifax, who lived in country quarters,” 


which is in fact the present heroic couplet of the Romaic. 


SCENE FROM 0 KA®ENEZX. 
TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF GOLDONI, BY SPERIDION VLANTIL 
ZKHNH KI”, 


TIAATZIAA εἰς τὴν πόρταν τοῦ χανιοῦ, καὶ of ἄνωϑεν. 


TIAA. ὥ, Θεέ! ἀπὸ τὸ παραθύρι μοῦ ἐφάνη νὰ ἀκούσω τὴν φωνὴν του ἀνδρός pou’ av 
αὐτὸς εἶναι ἐδὼ, ἔφθασα σὲ καιρὸν va τὸν ξεντρυπιάσω. [Ebyaiver ἕνας δοῦλος ἀπὸ τὸ 
ἐργαστήρι.] Παλικάριπές μου σέ παρακαλῶ ποιὸς εἶναι ἐκεῖ εἰς ἐκείνους τοὺς ὀντάδες ; 

AOYA. Tosis χρήσιμοι ἄνδρες. Ἕνας ὃ κὺρ Ebyévos, ὃ ἄλλος ὃ κὺρ Μάρτιος Να- 
πολιτάνος, καὶ ὃ τρίτος ὃ Κύρ Κόντε Λέανδρος ᾿Αρδέντης. 

TIAA. (Ἀνάμεσα εἰς αὐτοὺς δὲν εἶναι ὃ Φλαμίνιος, ἂν ὅμως δὲν ἄλλαξεν ὄνομα.) 

AEA. Νὰ $7 ἣ καλὴ τύχητοῦ κὺρ Ἐὐγενίου. [Πίνωντας.] 

ΟΔΟΙ. Νὰ ζῇ νὰ ζῇ. 

TIAA. (Αὐτὸς εἶναι ὃ ἄνδρας μου χωρὶς ἄλλο.) Καλὲ ἄνθρωπε κάμε μου τὴν χαρὶν 
νὰ μὲ συντροφεύσης ἀπάνῶ εἰς αὐτοὺς τοὺς ἀφεντάδες, ὁποῦ ϑέλω νὰ τοὺς παίξω μίαν. 
[Πρὸς τὸν δούλον.] 

AOY. “Ορισμός σας " (ουνηθισμένον ὀφφίκιον τῶν δουλευτῶν.) [Τὴν ἐμπάξει ἀπὸ τὸ 
ἐργαστήρι τοῦ παιγνιδιοῦ. 

PIA. Καρδιὰ, καρδιὰ, κάμετε καλὴν καρδιὰν, δὲν εἶναι τίποτες. [Πρὸς τὴν Βιττό- 
οιαν.] 

BIT. ᾿Εγὼ αἰσθάνομαι πῶς ἀπεθαίνω " [Συνέρχεται εἰς τὸν ἑαυτόν τῆς.] 

[᾿Απὸ τὰ παράθυρα τῶν ὀντάδων φαίνονται ὅλοι, ὁποῦ σηκόνωνται ἀπὸ τὸ 
τραπέξι συγχισμένοι. διὰ τὸν ξαφνισμὸν τοῦ Λεάνδρου βλέπωντας τὴν 
Πλάτζιδα, καὶ seas αὐτὸς δείχνει πῶς Séde νὰ THY φονεύσῃ. 

EYT. “Oye, σταθητε. 

MAP. Μὴν κάμνετε. .. 

AEA. Σίκω, φύγε an’ ἐδώ. 

TAA. Βοήθεια, βοήθεια. [Φεύγει ἀπὸ τήν σκάλαν, 6 Λέανδρος, ϑέλει νὰ τὴν ἄκο- 
λουθήσῃ μὲ τὸ σπαθὶ, καὶ ὃ Ἐὐγτὸν βαστᾶ.] 

PAS ie ἕνα πιάτο μὲ φαγὶ εἰς μίαν πετζέτα πηδᾷ ἀπὸ τὸ παραθύρι, Kai φεύγει εἰς 
τὸν καρ κε. ’ , 3 . ΡΥ ? ΄ ‘ 9 

TAA. {Εὐγαίνει ἀπὸ τὸ ἐργαστήρι τοῦ παιγνιδιοῦ τρέχωντας, καὶ φεύγει εἰς τὸ 
χάνι. 

EYL. [Μέ ἅρματα εἰς τὸ χέρι πρὸς διαφέντευσιν τῆς Πλάτζιδας, ἐναντίον τοῦ Λεάν- ᾿ 
ὅρου, ὑπῶ τὴν κατατρέχει. ; 

MAP. ἘΕὐγαίνει καὶ αὑτὸς σιγὰ σιγὰ ἀπὸ τὸ ἐργαστήρι, καὶ φεόγει λέγωντας.] Rumo- 
resfuge. [Ρουμέρες dovye.]* 

Οἱ Δούλοι. [᾿Απὸ τὸ ἐργαστήρι ἀπερνοῦν εἰς τὸ χάνι. Kal κλειοὺν τὴν πόρταν. 

BIT. [Μένει εἰς τὸν καφενέ βοηθημένη ἀπὸ τὸν “Ριδόλφον. 

AEA. δόσετε τόπον " ϑέλωρινὰ ἔμθω νὰ ἔμβω εἰς ἐκεῖνο τὸ χάνι. [Μὲ τὸ σπαθὶ εἰς τὸ 

ἔξ" ἐναντίον τοῦ Ebyeviov.] 
EYL. “Oxt, μὴ γένοιτο ποτέ εἶσαι ἕνας σληρόκαρδος ἐναντίον τῆς γυναικός σου, καὶ 


es. 


ἐγὼ ϑέλει τήν διαφεντεύσω ὡς εἰς τὸ ὕστερον αἷμα. 
AEA. Σοῦ κάμνω ὅρκον πῶς ϑέλει τὸ μετανοιώσῃς. [Κινηγᾳ τὸν Ἐὐγένιον μὲ τὸ 
σταθί.} 
EYT. Δὲν σὲ φοδοῦμαι. [Κατατρέχει τὸν Λέανδρον, καὶ τὸν βιάζει νὰ συρθῇ ὀπίσω 
τόσον, ὁποῦ εὐρίσκωντας ἀνοικτὸν τὸ σπῆτι τῆς χορεύτριας ἐμθαίνει εἰς αὐτὸ, καὶ σων- 
srat.] 


* Δόγος λατινικὸς͵ ὁποῦ ϑέλεινὰ cing φεόύγε ταῖς σόγχισες. 


CANTO THE SECOND. 89 


TRANSLATION. 


Platzida from the Door of the Hotel, and the Others. 


Pla. Oh God! from the window it seemed that I heard my husband’s voice. If 
he is here, I have arrived in time to make him ashamed. [A Servant enters from 
the Shop.] Boy, tell me, pray, who are in those chambers. 

Serv. Three gentlemen: one, Signor Eugenio; the other, Signor Martio, the 
Neapolitan; and the third, my Lord, the Count Leander Ardenti. 

Pia. Flammio is not among these, unless he has changed his name. 

Leander. [Within drinking.j Long live the good fortune of Signor Kugenio. 

The whole Company, Long live, &c.] (Literally, Na 27, νὰ ζῇ, May he live.) 
la. Without doubt that is my husband. [To the Serv.] My good man, do me 
the favour to accompany me above to those gentlemen; I have some business. 

Serv. At your commands. [Aside.] The old office of us waiters. [He goes 
out of the Gaming-House.]} 

Ridolpho, [To Victoria on another part of the stage.] Courage, courage, be of 
good cheer, it is nothing. 

Victoria, I feel as ifabout to die. [Leaning on him as if fainting.] 

[From the windows above all within are seen rising from table in confusion: 
he ye starts at the sight of Platzida, and appears by his gestures to threaten 
er life. 

Eugenio. No, stop 

Martio. Don’t attempt 

Leander. Away, fly from hence ! 

Pla. Help! Help! ΠῚ down the stairs, Leander attempting to follow with his 
sword, Eugenio hinders him.] 

[Trappola with a plate of meat leaps over the balcony from the window, and runs into 
the Coffee-House. | 

[Platzida runs out of the Gaming-House, and takes shelter in the Hotel.} 

| Martio steals softly out of the Gaming-House, and goes off, exclaiming ‘* Rumores 
fuge.”” The Servants from the Gaming-House enter the Hotel, and shut the door.] 

Victoria remains in the Coffee-House assisted by Ridolpho. | 

banter sword in hand opposite Kugenio exclaims, Give way—I will enter that 
hotel. 

et: No, that shall never be. You are a scoundrel to your wife, and I will 
defend her to the last drop of my blood. 

Leander, I will give you cause to repent this. [Menacing with his sword.]} 

Eugenio. I fear you not. [ He attacks Leander, and makes him give back so much, 
that finding the door of the dancing girl’s house open, Leander escapes through, and 
80 finishes. |* 


* Ywverac— finishes ””—awkwardly enough, but it is the literal translation of the 
Romaic. The original of this comedy of Goldoni’s 1 never read, but it does not ap- 
pear one of his best. ‘Il Bugiardo” is one of the most lively ; but I do not think 
it has been translated into Romaic: it is much more amusing than our own “ὁ Liar,” 
by Foote. The character of Leliois better drawn than Young Wilding. Goldoni’s 
comedies amount to fifty; some perhaps the best in Europe, and others the worst. 
His life is also one of the best specimens of autobiography, and, as Gibbon has ob- 
served, “ more dramatic than any of his plays.” ‘The above scene was selected as 
containing some of the most familiar Romaic idioms, not for any wit which it displays, 
since there is more done than said, the greater part consisting of stage directions. 
The original is one of the few comedies by Goldoni which is without the buffoonery 
of the speaking Harlequin. 


90 


AIA’AOTOI ΟΙ ΚΙΑΛΚΟΙ. 
Διὰ νὰ ξητήσῃς ἔνα πραγμα. 
Σᾶς παρακαλῶ, δόσετέ με av δρίζετε 
Φέρετέ με 
Δανείσετέ με 
Unyatvere νὰ ζητήσετε 
Τώρα εὐθὺς 
Ὦ ἀκριθέ μου Κύριε, κάμετέ με αὐτὴν τὴν 
χάριν 
᾿Εγὼ σᾶς παρακαλῶ 
᾿Εγὼ σᾶς ἐξορκίζω 
᾿Εγὼ σᾶς τὸ ζητῶ διὰ χάριν 
"Ὑποχρεώσετέ με εἰς τόσον 


Ζ΄ > Se et J 4 
Adyta ἐρωτικὰ, ἤ ἀγάπης. 


Ζωή μου 

᾿Ακριθή μου Ψυχὴ 
᾿Αγαπητέ μου, ἀκριθέ μου 
Καρδίτζα μου 

᾿Αγάπη μου 


Διὰ νὰ εὐχαριστήσης, νὰ καμῆς περιποίησες, 
καὶ φιλικαῖς δεξίωσες. 


"Ey, σᾶς εὐχαριστῶ 
Σᾶς γνωρίζω χάριν Ν 
Σᾶς εἶμαι ὑπόχρεος κατὰ πολλὰ 
᾿Εγὼ ϑέλω τὸ κάμει ads χαρὰς 
Mé ὅλήν μου τὴν καρδίαν 
Μὲ καλήν μου καρδίαν 
Σᾶς εἱμαὶ ὑπόχρεος 
Εἶμαι ὅλος ἐδίκος σας 
Ισἶμαι δοῦλος σας 
Ταπεινότατος δοῦλος 

7 s .2 4 
Εἶστε κατὰ πολλὰ ἐυγενικὸς 
Πολλὰ πειράζεσθε 
ms: »¥ τᾷ ΄ - by 
Τὸ ἔχω διὰ χαράν μου va τὰς δολεύσω 
Elore εὐγενικὸς καὶ εὐπροσήγορος 
Αὐτὸ εἶναι πρέπον 
Τὶ ϑέλετε 3 τὶ δρίζετε ; 


Las παρακαλῶ νὰ μὲ μεταχειρίζεσθε ἐλεύ- 
θερα 

“Χωρίς περιποίησες 

Sic ὦ nm ἐξ ἢ i 

Σᾶς ἀγαπῶ ἐξ ὅλης μου καρδίας 

Καὶ ἐγὼ ὁδμόιως 

Tipjoere μὲ ταῖς προσαγαῖς σας 

Ἔχετε τίποτες νὰ pe προστάξετε: 

Ilooordtere τὸν δοῦλον σας 

Ἐροσμέἕνω τὰς προσαγὰς σας 

Μὲ κάμνετε μεγάλην τιμὴν 

Φθάνουν ἡ περιποίησες σᾶς παρακαλῶ 

Προσκυνήσετε ἐκμέρους μου τὸν ἄρχοντα. 7 
τὸν κύριον 

Βεθαιώσετε τὸν πῶς τὸν ἐνθυμοῦμαι 

Βεδαιώσετε τὸν πῶς τὸν ἀγαπῶ 

Δὲν ϑέλω λείψει να του τὸ εἰπῶ 

Προσκυνήματα ἐις τὴν ἀρχόντισσαν 

Unyatvere ἐμπροσθὰ καὶ σᾶς ἀκολουθῶ 

᾿Ηξεύρω καλὰ τὸ χρέος μου 


APPENDIX TO 


FAaMILI4R DIaLoeueEs. 
To ask for any thing. 


I pray you, give me if you please. 
Bring me. 

Lend me. 

Go to seek. 

Now directly. 

My dear Sir, do me this favour. 


I entreat you. 

I conjure you. 

I ask it of you as a favour. 
Oblige me so much. 


A ffectionate expressions. 


My life. 

My dear soul. 
My dear. 

My heart. 
My love. 


To thank, pay compliments and testify 
regard. 


I thank you. 

I return you thanks. 

I am much obliged to you. 

I will do it with pleasure. 
With all my heart. 

Most cordially. 

I am obliged to you. 

I am wholly yours. 

I am your servant. 

Your most humble servant. 
You are too obliging. 

You take too much trouble. 

I have a pleasure in serving you. 
You are obliging and kind. 
That is right. 

What is your pleasure ? 
What are your commands ? 

{ beg you will treat me freely. 


Without ceremony. 

I love you with all my heart. 

And I the same. 

Honour me with your commands. 

Have you any commands for me ? 

Command your servant. 

I wait your commands. 

You do me great honour. 

Not so much ceremony I beg. 

Present my respects to the gentleman, 
his lordship. 

Assure him of my remembrance. 

Assure him of my friendship. 

{ will not fail to tell him of it. 

My compliments to her ladyship. 

Go before, and I will follow you. 

I well know my duty. 


CANTO THE 


᾿Ηξεόρω τὸ εἶναι pov 

Μὲ κάμνετε νά ἐντρέπωμαι μὲ ταῖς τόσαις 
φιλοφροσύναις σας 

Θέλετε λοιπὸν νὰ κάμω μίαν ἀρχείοτητα ; 


‘Yrdyw ἐμπροσθὰ διὰ νὰ σᾶς ὑπακούσω 
Διὰ νὰ κάμω τὴν προσταγήν σὰς 

Δὲν ἀγαπῶ τόσαις περιποίησες 

Δὲν εἶμαι στελείως περιποίητικος 

Αὐτὸ εἶναι τὸ καλίτερον 

Ῥόσον τὸ καλίτερον 

Ἔχετε λόγον, ἔχετε δίκαιον 


Διὰ νὰ βεδαιώσης, νὰ ἀρνηθῆς νὰ συγκαται- 
evons, καὶ TE 


Eivat ἀληθινὸν, εἶναι ἀληθέστατον 

Διὰ νὰ σᾶς εἴπω τὴν ἀλήθειαν 

Ὄντως, ἐτζη εἶναι 

Ποῖος ἀμφιθάλλει ; 

Δὲν εἶναι ποσῶς ἀμφιθολία 

Τὸ πιστεύω, δὲν τὸ πιστεύω 

Aéyw τὸ ναὶ 

Aéyw τὸ ὄχι 

Βάλλω στίχημα ὅτι εἶναι 

Βάλλω στίχημα ὅτι δὲν εἶναι ἔτζη 

Nai, μὰ τὴν πίστιν μου 

Kis τὴν συνείδησιν μου 

Μὰ τὴν ζωήν μου 

Ναὶ, σᾶς ὀμνύω 

Σᾶς ὀμνόω ὡσὰν τεμημένος ἄνθρωπος 

Σᾶς ὀμνύω ἐπάνω εἰς τὴν τιμήν μου 

Πιστεύσετε με 

ἨἮ μπορῶ νὰ σὰς τὸ βεθαιώσω 

᾿Ηθέλα βαλῃ στίχημα, ὅτι ϑέλετε διὰ τοῦτο 

Μὴ τύχῃ καὶ ἀστείζεσθε (yoparetere ;) 

‘Opiate μὲ τὰ ὅλα as ; 

᾿Εγὼ σᾶς δμιλῶ με τὰ ὅλα pov, καὶ ods λέγω 
τὴν ἀλήθειαν 

᾿γὼ σᾶς τὸ βεδαιώνω 

Τὸ ἐπροφητεόσετε 

Τὸ ἐπιτεύχετε 

Σᾶς πιστεύω 

Πρέπει νὰ σᾶς πιστεύσω 

Αὐτὸ δὲν εἶναι ἀδύνατον 

Τὸ λοιπὸν ἂς εἶναι με καλὴν ὥραν 

Καλὰ, καλὰ 

Δὲν εἶναι ἀληθινὸν 

Eivat ψευδὲς 

Δὲν εἶναι τίποτες ἀπὸ αὐτὸ 

Εἶναι ἕνα ψεῦδος μία ἀπάτη 

᾿Εγὼ ἀστείζομουν (ἐχοράτευα ) 

*Ey® το εἶπα διὰ νὰ γελάσω 

Tn ἀληθείᾳ 

Μὲ ἀρέσει cara πολλὰ 

Συγκατανεύω εἰς τοῦτο 

Δίδω τὴν ψῆφον μου 

Δὲν ἀντιστέκομαι εἰς τοῦτο 

Eipat σύμφωνος, ἐκ συμφώνου 

᾿ῬἘγὼ δὲν ϑέλω 

᾿Εγῶ ἐναντιώνομαι εἰς τοῦτο 


Διὰ νὰ συμθδουλευθῆς, νὰ στοχασθῆς, ἢ νὰ 
ἀποφασίσης 


Τί πρέπει νὰ κάμωμεν ; 


€: 
SECOND. $1 


{ know my situation. er 
You confound me with so much civility. 


Would you have me then be guilty of an 
incivility ὁ 

I go before to obey you. 

To comply with your command. 

I do not like so much ceremony. 

I am not at all ceremonious. 

This is better. 

So much the better. 

You are in the right. 


To affirm, deny, consent, &c. 


It is true, itis very true. 

To tell you the truth. 

Really, it is so. 

Who doubts it ? 

There is no doubt. 

I believe it, I do not believe it. 

1 say yes. 

I say no. 

I wager it is. 

I wager it is not 50. 

Yes, by my faith. 

In conscience, 

By my life. 

Yes, I swear it to you. 

I swear to you as an honest man. 

I swear to you on my honour. 

Believe me. 

I can assure you of it. . 

T would lay what bet hig, piease on this. 

Your jest by chance 4 

Do you speak seriously ? 

I speak seriously to you, and tell you the 
truth. 

I assure you of it, 

You have guessed it. 

You have hit upon it. 

I believe you. 

I must believe you. 

This is not impossible. 

Then it is very well. 

Well, well. 

It is not true. 

It is false. 

There is nothing of this. 

It is a falsehood, an imposture. 

I was in joke. 

[said it to laugh. 

Indeed. 

It pleases me much. 

T agree with you. 

I give my assent. 

I do not oppose this, 

I agree. 

I will not. 

T object to this. 


700 consult, consider, or resolve 


What ought we to do? 


92 


ΤΊ Sa κάμωμεν ; 

Τί μὲ συμθουλεύτε νὰ κάμω, 

Ὁ ποῖον τρόπον ϑέλομεν μεταχειρισθὴ ἡμεῖς ; 
"As κάμωμεν ἐτζὴ 
Εἶναι καλίτερον ἐγὼ νὰ 
Σταθὴτε ὀλίγον 

Δὲν ἤθελεν εἶναι καλίτερον va— 
᾿Εγὼ ἀγαποῦτα καλίτερα 

Θέλετε κάμει καλίτερα dv— 
᾿Αφήσετέ με 

“Ay ἤμουν εἰς τὸν τόπον σας ἐγὼ 
Elvat τὸ ἴδιον 


APPENDIX TO 


What shall we do? 

What do you advise me to 
What part shall we take ? 
Let us do this. 

Tt is better that I— 

Wait a little. 

W ould it not be better that— 
I wish it were better. 

You will do better if— 

Let me go. 

If [ were in your place I— 
It is the same. 


The reader by the specimens below will be enabled to compare the modern with the 
ancient tongue 


PARALLEL PASSAGES FROM ST.JOHNS GOSPEL, 


Νέον. 
Kegan. ά. 

1. ΕἸΣ τὴν αρχὴν ἦτον ὃ λόγος " καὶ ὁ λό- 
γος ἦτον μετὰ Θεοῦ " καὶ Θεος ἦτον ὃ λόγος. 

Q. Erovros ἦτον εἰς τὴν ἀρχὴν μετὰ Θεοῦ. 

8. Ὅλα [τὰ πράγματα] διὰ μέσου τοῦ 
[λόγου] ἐγίνηκαν, καὶ χωρὶς αὐτὸν δὲν ἔγινε 
κανένα εἴτι ἔγινε. 

4. Εἰς αὐτὸν ἧτον ζωὴ Kali ζωὴ ἧτον τὸ 
φῶς τῶν ἀνθρώπων. okt ¥ : ᾿ 

5. Καὶ τὸ φῶς ets τὴν σκοτείαν φέγγει, 
καὶ 4 σκοτεία δὲν τὸ κατάλαθε. 

6. Ἔγινεν ἕνας ἄνθρωπος ἀπεσταλμένος 
ἀπὸ τὸν Θεὸν, τὸ ὄνομά του ᾿Ιωάννης. 


Αὐθεντικὸν, 
_ Kegan. a. 
1. "EN ἀρχῃ ἣν ὃ λόγος, καὶ ὃ λόγος Fr 
πρὸς τὸν Θεὸν, καὶ Θεὸς ἦν ὃ λόγος. 
2. Οὗτος ἣν ἐν ἀρχῆ πρὸς τὸν Θεόν. 
3. Πάντα δὶ αὐτοῦ ἐγένετο " δὲ χωρὶς at- 
τοῦ ἐγένετο οὐδὲ ἕν, ὃ γέγονεν. 


A. Ἔν αὐτῷ ζωὴ ἦν, καὶ ἣ ζωὴ ἦν τὸ φῶς 
τῶν ἀνθρώπων. 

5. Καὶ τὸ φῶς ἐν τῇ σκοτίᾳ φαίνει, de ἡ 
σκοτία αὐτὸ οὐ κατέλαθεν. 

6. ᾿Εγένετο ἄνθρωπος ἀπεσταλμένος παρὰ 
Θεοῦ, ὄνομα αὐτῷ ᾿Ιωάννης. 


THE INSCRIPTIONS AT ORCHOMENUS, FROM MELETIUS. 


 *OPKOMENO'S, κοινῶς Σκριποῦ, Πόλις ποτὲ πλουσιωτάτη καὶ ἰσχυρωτάτη, πρότερον 
καλουμενὴ Βοιωτικαὶ ᾿Αθῆναι, εἰς τὴν ὁποίαν ἦτον ὃ Naos τῶν Χαρίτων, εἰς τὸν δποῖον 
ἐπλήρῳνον τέλη οἱ Onbaior, οὕτινος τὸ ἔδαφος ἀνεσκάφθε ποτὲ ὑπὸ τῶν ᾿Ασπαλάγκων. 
ῬἙπανηγύριζον εἰς αὐτὴν τὴν Πόλιν τὰ χαριτήσια, τοῦ ὁποίου ᾿Αγῶνος εὖρον ἐπιγραφάς ἐν 
ατήλαις ἔνδον τοῦ κτισθέντος Naot én’ ὀνόμαπι τῆς Θεοτόκου, ὑπὸ τοῦ ΠΙρωτοσπαθαρίου 
Ἀέοντος, ἐπὶ πῶν Βασιλέων Βασιλείου, Λέοντος, καὶ Κωνσταντίνου ἐχούσας οὕτως. Ἔν 


μὲν τῇ μιᾳ κοινως. 


“ Olde ἐνίκων τὸν ἀγῶνα τῶν χαριτησίων. 


Σαλπιστὴς. 


Μῆνις ᾿Απολλωνίου ᾿Αντιοχεὺυς ἀπὸ Μαιάνδρου. 


Κήρυξ. 
Ζώϊλος Ζωΐλου Wddguos. 
“Ῥαψωδὲς. 


Νουμήνιος Νουμηνίου ᾿Αθηναῖος. 


Ποιητὴς ἐπῶν. 


Αμηνίας Δημοκλέους Θηθαῖος, 


Αὐλητὴς. 


‘a 
ce 


CANTO THE SECOND. 


᾿Απολλόδοτος ᾿Απολλοδότου Κρὴς. 
Αὐλωδὸς. 

“Ῥόδιππος Ροδίππου "Αργῆος. 
Κιθαριστὴς. 

Φανίας ᾿Απολλοδότου τοῦ Φανίον Αἰολεὺς ἀπὸ Kburc 
Κιθαρωδὸς. 

Δημήτριος ἸΤαρμενίοκου Καλχηδόνιος" 
Τραγωδὸς. 

Ἱπποκράτης ᾿Αριστομένους Ῥόδιος. 
Κωμωδὸς. 

Καλλίστρατος ᾿Εξακέστου Θηθαῖος. 
Ποιητὴς Σατύρων. 

᾿Αμηνίας Δημοκλέους Onbaios. 
Ὑποκριτὴς. 

Δωρόθεος Δωροθέου Taparrivos. 
Ποιητὴς 'Τραγωδιῶν. 

Σοφοκλῆς Σοφοκλέους ᾿Αθηναῖος. 
Ὑποκριτὴς. 

Καδίρίχος Θεοδώρου Θηδαῖος. 
Ποιητὴς Κωμωδιῶν. 

᾿Αλέξανδρος ᾿Αρίστωνος ᾿Αθηναῖος. 
Ὑποκριτὴς. 

Ἄτταλος ᾿Αττάλου ᾿Αθηναῖος. 

Οἵδε ἐνίκων τὸν νήμητον ἀγῶνα τῶν δμοδωων. 
Παῖδας αὐληστὰς. 

Διοκλῆς Καλλιμήδου Onbaios. 
Παῖδας ἡγεμόνας. 

Στρατῖνος Eivixov Θηθαῖος. 
Ανδρας Αὐλητὰς. 

Διοκλῆς Καλλιμήδου Onbaios. 
*Avopas ἡγεμόνας. 

᾿Ρόδιππος Ροδίππου ᾿Αργεῖος. 
Τραγωδὸς. 

Ἱπποκράτης ᾿Αριστομένους 'Ῥόδιος 
Κωμωδὺς. 

Καλλίστρατος ᾿Εἰξακέστου Θηβαῖος. 
Τὰ ἐπινίκια. 

Κωμωδιῶν Ποιητὴς. 
᾿Αλέξανδρος ᾿Αριστίωνος ᾿Αθηναῖος." 


Ἔν δὲ τῇ ἑτερᾷ δωρικῶς. 


“ Μνασίνω ἄρχοντος ἀγωνοθετίοντος τὸν 
Χαριτείσιον, εὐαριοστω πάντων ὃς τυδε ἐνικώσαν τὰ 
χαριτείτια. 
Σαλπιγκτὰς. 
Φίλινος Φιλίνω ᾿Αθάνειος. 
Κάρουξ. 
Eloddas Σωκράτιος Θείθειος. 
Ποειτὰς. 
Μήστωρ Μήστορος Φωκαιεὺς. 
“Ῥαψαευδὺς. 
. Κράτων Κλίωνος Θείθειος. 
Αὐλειτὰς. 
Περιγενεὶς Ηρακλείδαο ἹΚονζικηνὸς. 
Αὐλαευδὸς. 
Δαμήνετος TAabkw ἴΑργιος. 
Κιθαριστὰς. 
Δάματρος ᾿Αμαλώω Αἰολεὺυς ἀπὸ Μουρίνας. 
Τραγαευδὸς, 
᾿Ασκλαπιόδωρος Πουθεάο 'Ταραντινὸς. 
Κωμαευδὸς. 
Νικόστρατος Φιλοστράτω Θείδειος. 
Ta ἐπινίκεια Kwpaevods. 
Evaoyos ‘Hpodérw Κορωνεὺς." 


~ 


ῳῷ 
t= 


APPENDIX TO 


f 
"Ev ἀλλῴ Aido. 
ra , ,΄ . 
“ Μύριχος ἸΠολυκοάτους ‘lapwvpuos διογίτωνος ἄνδρεσσι χοραγείσαντες νικάσαντες ὀιογύσ5η 
» , ” > ΄ ΄ὕ 
ἀνέθηκαν τίμωνος ἄρχοντος αὐλίοντος κλέος αδοντος ἀλκισθένιος. 


Ev érépw Λίθῳ. 


=F = ΡΙ - ᾽ τ, ἘΝῚ 
᾿ϑυνάρχω ἄρχοντος, μεινὸς ϑειλουθίω, ἀρχιε. . « ὡς Εὔδωλι ἀρχεδάμω φωκεῖα . . 
a5 ἀπέδωκα ἀπὸ τὰς σουγγραφῶ πέδα τῶν πολεμάρχων κὴ τῶν κατοπτάων ἀνελόμενος τὰς 
σουγγραφῶς τὰς κιμένας πὰρ εὐῴρονα, κὴ φιδίαν κὴ πα σικλεῖν. -. Ki} τιμόμειδον φωκείας, 


xy δαμοτελεῖν λυσιδάμω, κὴ δίονυσον καφισοδώω χηρωνεῖα κἂτ τὸ Ψαῴφισμα τῶ τάμω. 


ΛΛΩΨΨΕΙΡ ΤΙ 


ϑυνάρχω ἄρχοντος, pecvds ἀλαλκομενιω F ἀρνῶν, πολύκλειος ταμίας ἀπέδωκε εὔδωλυ ἀρ- 
χεδάμω φωκεῖϊ ἀπὸ τᾶς σουγγραφῶ τὸ καταλύπον Kar τὸ ψάφισμα τῶ δάμω, ἀνελόμενος 
τάς σουγγραφὼς τάς κίμενας πὰρ σώφιλον, κὴ εὔῴρονα φωκέας. Ky πὰρ διωνύσιον χηρω- 
γέα, κὴ λυσίδαμον δαμοτέλιος πέδα τῶν πολεμάρχων, κὴ τῶν κατοπτάων. 


ΣΥΓΡΕΣΕΤΕΡΡΙΠΟΗ 


ἴλρχοντος ἐν ἐρχομενὸ ϑυνάρχω, μενὸς ᾿Αλαλκομενίω, ἐν δὲ F ἐλατίη Μενοίταο ᾿Αρχελάω 
μεινὸς πράτω. “Opodoya Εὔδωλυ F ἐλατίη, ο Ky τῇ πόλι ἐρχομενίων. "Ἐπειδὴ κεκομίστη 
Ev6wros πὰρ τῆς πόλιος τὸ δάνειον ἅπαν Kat τὰς ὁμολογίας τὰς τεθίσας ϑυνάρχω ἄρχοντος, 
μεινὸς ϑειλουθίω, Kj odT ὀφειλέτη αὐτὼ ἔτι οὐθὲν πὰρ τὰν πόλιν, ἀλλ᾽ ἀπέχι πάντα περὶ 
παντὸς, κὴ ἀποδεδόανθι τῇ πόλι τὸ ἔχοντες τὰς ὁμολογίας, εἰ μὲν ποτὲ δεδομένον χρόνον 
Εὔβωλυ ἐπὶ νομίας F ἔτι ἀπέτταρα ΠΣ σοὺν ἵππυς δια κατίης Fu kate πρυθάτυς σοὺν 
ἤγυς χειλίης ἀρχὶ TH χρόνω ὃ ἐνιαυτὸς ὃ μετὰ ϑύναρχον ἄρχοντα ἐρχομενίυς ἀπογραφεσθη 
δὲ Εὔδωλον κατ᾽ ἐνιαυτὸν εκαστον πὰρ τὸν ταμίαν Ky τὸν νόμων ἄν τάτε καὕματα τῶν πρυ- 
βάτων, κὴ τῶν ἠγῶν, κὴ τῶν Bovdy, Ky τῶν ἵππων, Ki} κάτινα ἀσαμαίων ϑίκη τὸ πλεῖθος pec 
ἀπογράφεσυ ὧδε πλίονα τῶν γεγραμμένων ἐν τῇ σουγχωρείσι ἡ δεκατις . . . ἢ τὸ ἐννόμιον 
Εὔβωλον ὀφείλει. . . . . λις TOY ἐρχομενίων apyoupiw . . . . . . τετταράκοντα Ἐὔ- 
βωλυ καθ᾽ ἕκαστον ἐνιαυτὸν, κὴ τόκον φερέτω δραχμὰς . . .. . - - τας μνᾶς ἑκάστας κατὰ 
μεῖνα . . . . « TOY Ki) ἔμπρακτος ἔστω τὸν ἐρχομένιον. . .. . .-. καὶ τὰ és.” 


Ἔν ἄλλοις Λίθοις. 


ἐς ΣΑνοδώρα wiht χαῖρε ΝΟΚΥΕΣ. “Καλλίπιτον ἀμφάριχος. καὶ ἄλλαι." Ἔν 
οὐὸς pia ᾿Ἐπιγραφῃ thoy τόνον, ἤ πνεῦμα, ἃ δε ἡμεῖς ὑπογράφομεν, οἱ παλαιοὶ προσέγραφον. 
Καὶ τὰ ἑξῆς. 


The following is the prospectus of a translation of Anacharsis into Romaic, by my 
Rornaic master, Marmarotouri, who wished to publish it in England. 


EIAH’SIZE ΤΥΠΟΓΡΡΑΦΙΚΗ,. 
Πρὸς τοὺς ἐν φιλογενεῖς καὶ φιλέλληνας. 


ὍΣΟΙ εἰς βιβλία παντοδαπὰ ἐντρυφῶσιν, ἠξεύρουν πόσον εἶναι τὸ χρήσιμον τῆς “Ἰστορίας͵ 
δι᾽ αὐτῆς γὰρ ἐξευρίσκεται ἡ πλέον μεμακουσμὲνη παλαιότης, Και ϑεωροῦνται ὡς ἐν κατόπ- 
row ἤθη, πράζεις καὶ διοικήσεις πολλῶν καὶ διαφόρων "EOvGy καὶ Τενῶν ὧν τὴν μνήμην διε- 
σώσατῳ καὶ διασωσει § Ἵστορικη Διήγησις cis αἰῶνα τὸν απαντα. 


CANTO THE SECOND. 95 


Mia τέτοια ’Excoripny εἶναι εὐαπόκτητος, καὶ ἐν ταυτῷ ὠφέλιμη, ἤ κρεῖττον εἰπεῖν dvay- 
καία " διατὶ λοὶπὸν ἡμεῖς μόνοι νὴ τὴν ὑστερούμεθα, μὴ ἠξεύροντες οὔτε τὰς ἀρχὲ; τῶν 
Γυυγόνων μας, πόθεν πότε καὶ πῶς εὐρέθησαν εἰς τὰς πατρίδας μας, οὔτε τὰ ἤθη, τὰ κατορ» 
θώματα καὶ τὴν διοίκησίν των; "Av ἐρωτήσωμεν τοὺς ᾿Αλλογενεῖς, ἠξεύρουν νὰ μᾶς δώσουν 
ὄχιμόνον ἱστορικῶς τὴν ἀρχὴν καὶ τὴν πρόοδον τῶν προγόνων μας, ἀλλὰ καὶ τοπογραφικῶς 
μὰς δείχνουν ras θέσεις τῶν Πατρίδων μας, καὶ οἱονεὶ χειραγωγοὶ γιυόμενοι μὲ τοὺς γεω-- 
γοαφικούς των Πίνακας, μᾶς λέγουν, ἐδὼ εἶναι at ᾿Αθῆναι, ἐδὼ ἡ Σπάρτη, ἐκεῖ ai Onbar, 
τόσα στάδια ἤ μίλια ἀπέχει ἡ μία ᾿Επαρχία ἀπὸ τὴν ἄλλην. Τοῦτος φκοδόμησε τὴν μίαν 
πόλιν, ἐκεῖνος τὴν ἄλλην, καὶ τξ. Προσέτι ἄν ἐρωτήσωμεν αὐτοὺς τοὺς μὴ “EAAnvas χει" 
ραγωγούς μας, πόθεν ἐπαρακινήθησαν νὰ ἐξερευνήσουν ἀρχὰς τόσον παλαιὰς, ἀνυποστόλως 
μᾶς ἀποκρίνονται μὲ αὐτοὺς τοὺς λόγους. ““ Καθὼς ὁ ἐκ Σκυθίας ᾿Ανάχαρσις, ἄν δὲν ἐπε- 
οιείρχετο τὰ πανευφρόσυνα ἐκεῖνα Κλίματα τῆς Ἑλλάδος. av δέν ἐμφορεῖτο τὰ ἀξιώματα͵ τὰ 
ἤθη καὶ τοὺς Νόμους τῶν ᾿Ελλήνων, ἤθελε μείνῃ Σκύθης καὶ τὸυ δόμα καὶ τὸ πρᾶγμα" ovr 
καὶ 6 ἡμέτερος ᾿Ιατρὸς, αν δὲν ἐμάνθανε τὰ τοῦ ᾿Ιπποκράτους, δὲν ἐδύνατο νὰ προχωρήση εἰς 
τὴν τέχνην του. “Av ὃ ἐν ἡμῖν Νομοθέτης δὲν ἐξέταζε τὰ τοῦ Σόλωνος. Λυκούργου, καὶ Πιτ- 
τακοῦ, δὲν ἐδύνατο νὰ ῥυθμήσῃ καὶ νὰ καλιεργήσῃ τὰ ἤθη τῶν ᾿Ομογενῶν του" ἄν ὃ Ῥήτωρ 
δὲν ἀπηνθίζετο τὰς εὐφραδειας καὶ τοὺς χαριεντισμοὺς τοῦ Δημοσθένους, δὲν ἐνεργοῦσεν εἰς 
τὰς ψυχὰς τὼν ἀκροατῶν του" “Av ὃ Néos ee ὃ Κύριος "Abbas Βαρθολομαῖος δὲν 
ἀνεγίνωσκε μὲ μεγάλην ἐπιμονὴν καὶ σκέψιν τοὺς πλέον ἐγκρίτους Συγγραφεῖς τῶν EdAjvwr, 
ἐξερευνῶν αὐτοὺς κατὰ βάθος ἐπὶ τρίακοντα δύω ἔτη, δὲν ἤθελεν ἐξυφάνῃ τούτην τὴν περὶ “Ἔλ-- 
λήνων Ἱστορίαν του, ἥτις Περιήγησις τοῦ Νέου ᾿Αναχάρσεως παρ᾽ αὐτοῦ προσωνομασθη, καὶ 
εἰς ὅλας τὰς Ἐθὐρωπαϊκὰς Διαλέκτους μετεγλωττίσθη."" Καὶ ἐν ἕνι λόγῳ, οἱ Newrepor, ἄν δὲν 
ἔπερναν δία δδηγοὺς τοὺς ἸΤρογόνους μας. ἤθελαν tows περιφέρωνται ματαίως μέχρι τοῦ νῦν. 
Αὐτὰ δὲν εἶναι Λόγια ἐνθυσιασμένου διὰ τὸ φιλογενὲς Τραικοῦ, εἶναι δὲ φιλαλήθους Τερμα-- 
νου, ὅστις ἐμετάφρασε τὸν Νέον ᾿Ανάχαρσιν ἀπὸ τοῦ Ταλλικοῦ εἰς τὸ Γερμανικὸν. 


“Av λοιπὸν καὶ ἡμεῖς ϑέλομεν νὰ μεθέζωνεν τὴς γνώσεως τῶν λαμπρῶν κατορθωμάτων ὁποῦ 
ἔκαμαν ot ϑαυμαστοὶ ἐκεῖνοι ἸΠροπάτορες ἡμῶν, ἄν ἐπιθυμῶμεν νὰ μάθωμεν τὴν πρόοδον καὶ 
αὔξησίν των εἰς τὰς Téyvas καὶ ᾿ΕἘπιστήμας καὶ εἰς κάθε ἄλλο εἶδος μαθήσεως. ἄν ἔχωμεν 
περιέργειαν νὰ γνωρίσωμεν πόθεν καταγόμεθα, καὶ ὁποίους ϑαυμαστοὺς καὶ μεγάλους avdpas, 
εἰ καὶ προγόνους ἡμῶν, φεῦ, ἡμεῖς δὲν γνωρίζομεν. εἰς καιρὸν δποῦ οἱ ᾿Αλλογενεῖς ϑαυμάζουσιν 
αὐτοὺς, καὶ ὡς πατέρας παντοιασοῦν μαθήσεως σέδονται, ἄς συνδράμωμεν ἁπαντες προθύμως 
εἰς τὴν ἔκδοσιν τοῦ ϑαυμασίου τούτου συγγράμματος τοῦ Néov ᾿Αναχάρσεως. 


Ἥμεις οὖν οἵ ὑπογεγραμμένοι ϑέλομεν ἐκτελέσει προθύμως τὴν μετάφρασιν τοῦ Βιδλίου μὲ 
τὴν κατὰ τὸ δυνατὸν ἡμῖν καλήν φράσιν τῆς νῦν καθ᾽ ἡμᾶς δμιλίας, καὶ ἐκδόντες τοῦτο εἰς 
τύπον, ϑέλομεν τὸ καλλωπίσει μὲ τοῦς Γεωγραφικοὺς Πίνακας μὲ ἁπλᾶς Ῥωμαϊκὰς λέξεις 
ἐγκεχαραγμένους εἰς ἐδικάμας γράμματα, προστιθέντες ὅτε ἄλλο χρήσιμον καὶ ἁρμόδιον εἰς 
τὴν ᾿Ιστορίαν. 


Ὅλον τὸ σύγγραμμα ϑέλει γένει εἰς Tépous δώδεκα κατὰ μίμησιν τῆς Ἰταλικῆς ἐκδόσεως. 
Ἢ τιμὴ ὅλου τοῦ Συγγράμματος εἶναι φιορίνια δεκαέξη τῆς Βιέννης διὰ τὴν προσθήκην τῶν 
γεωγραφικῶν πινάκων. Ὃ φιλογενὴς bv Συνδρομητὴς πρέπει να πληρώσῃ εἰς κάθε Τόμον 
Φιορίνι eva καὶ Kapavravia εἴκοσι τῆς Βιένννς, καὶ τοῦτο χωρὶς καμμίαν πρόῤοσιν, ἀλλ᾽ 
εὐθὴς ὁποῦ ϑέλει τῶ παραδοθῇ ὃ Tépos τυπωμένος καὶ δεμένος. 


"Eppwpéror καὶ evdatpoves διαθιώοιτε “Ελλήνων Παῖδες. 
Τῆς ὑμετέρας ἀγάπης ἐξηρτημένοι 
Ἰωάννης Μαρμαροτούρης 
Δημήτριος Βενιέρης. 
Σπυρίδων Πρεδέτος. 
Ἔν Τριεστίω, τῇ πρώτῃ ᾿Οκτωδρίου, 1799. 


THE LORD’S PRAYER IN ROMAIC, 


. . . v ΄ a ι ὦ 
QUATE PA ΜΑΣ ὃ ποῦ εἶσαι els τοὺς οὐρανοὺς, as ἁγιασθὴ τὸ ὄνομά σου. As λθη 
ἡ βασιλεία σου. “As γύνη τὸ ϑέλημά σου, καθὼς εἰς τὸν οὐρανὸν, ἔτζη καὶ εἰς τὴν Ἦν. 
Τὸ Ψωμίμας τὸ καδημερινὸν, δός μας τὸ σημερον. Και συγχώρησςε μας τὰ χρξη pas, ταθὼς 


. 


96 APPENDIX TO CANTO THE SECOND. 


καὶ ἐμεῖς συγχωροῦμεν τοὺς κρευφειλέτας μας. Kai μὴν pas φέρεις εἰς πειρασμὸν. ἀλλὰ 
ἐλευθέρωσέ μας ἀπὲ τὸν πονηρὸν. Ὅτι ἐδικήσου εἶναι ἡ βασιλεία, δὲ ἡ δόναμις, καὶ ἡ δόξα, 


εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας. ᾿Αμήν. 
; IN GREEK. 


IIA ΤΕΡ ἡμῶν ὃ ev τοῖς οὐοανοῖς, ἁγιασθήτω τὸ ὄνομά σου. ᾿Ἐλθέτω ἡ βασιλεία σου * 
γενηθήτω τὸ ϑέλημά σὸυ, ws ἐν οὐρανῷ, καὶ ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς. Τὸν ἄρτον ἡμῶν τὸν ἐπιούσιον 
δὸς ἡμῖν σήμερον. Καὶ ἄφες ἡμῖν τὰ ὀφειλήματα ἡμῶν, ὡς καὶ ἡμεῖς ἀφίεμεν τοῖς ὀφειλέ- 
ταις ἡμῶν. Καὶ μὴ εἰσενέγκῃς ἡμᾶς εἰς πειρασμὸν, ἀλλὰ ῥῦσαι ἡμᾶς ἀπὸ τοῦ πονηροῦ. 
“Ὅτι σοῦ ἐστίν ἡ βασιλεία. καὶ ἣ δύναμις. καὶ ἣ δύξα, εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας. ᾿Αμόν. 


᾿ τὸ -᾿ 3 t 
τ Afin que cette a teeaeeg vous foreat de penser a autre chose; iln’y a 
vérité de reméde que celui-la et le temps.” — Lettre du Roi de Prssed D Alembert, 
Sept. 7, 1776. : : . Σ P 
p ine + 
: S08 hg ® ea 
a 
(it uae ἢ 


Be eco eet 


ov 


CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO THE THIRD. Φ 


"Is thy face like thy mother’s, my fair child ! ΚΝ 
Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart ? ye 
When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled, 
And then we parted, — not as now we part, 
But with a hope. — 
Awaking with a start, 
The waters heave around me; and on high 
The winds lift up their voices: I depart, . 
Whither I know not ; but-the hour ’s gone by, 
ean Albion’s lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye. 


EINER ESE eg, 
cmc 
ot 


372% 


ἔν ἄξεις, 
II. 4 τὸ 2 ᾧ 
Once more upon the waters! yet once more! @ ΄ 
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed tks 


That knows his rider. € Welcome, to the roar! | 
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe’er it lead! 
Though the strain’d mast should quiver as a reed, 
And the rent canvass fluttering strew the gale, 
Still must I on; for I am as a weed, 
Flung from the rock, on Ocean’s foam, to sail 
Where’er the surge may sweep, the tempest’s breath prevail. » 


| 


100 : CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO II. 


Ill. 


. In my youth’s summeg]gdid sing of One, 
The wandering outlaw is own dark mind ; 
Again I seize the theme then but begun, 
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind 
Bears the cloud onwards : in that Tale I find 
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, 
Which, ebbing, leave a steril track behind, 
O’er which all heavily the journeying years 
Plod the last sands of life, — where not a flower appears. 


Iv. 

Since my young days of passion — Joy, or pain, 
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a siring, 
And both may jar: it may be, that in vain 
I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
Yet;though a dreary strain, to this I cling, 
So that it ween me from the weary dream 
Of selfish grief or gladness —so it fling 
Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem 

To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. 


v. 
He, who grown aged in this world of woe, | 
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life. 
So that no wonder waits him; nor below 
Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, 
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife 
Of silent, sharp endurance : he can tell 
_. Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet ric τς" e 
_. With airy images, and shapes which dwell Sy 
~ Still unimpair’d, though old, in the soul’s haunted cel.. S$) 


zou VI. ; δ 
Tis to create, and in creating live res 
© « A being more intense, that we endow el 
ς With form our fancy, gaining as we give 
The life we image, even as I do now. 
What am I? Nothing: .but not so art thou, 
“Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth, 

— Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
Mix’d with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, 

And feeling still with thee in my crush’d feelings’ dearth 


“*. 
ἧς 
»~ g 


CANTO III. PILGRIMAGEY ° 


Vil. 


Yet must [ think less wildly : —I have thought. 
Too long and darkly, till my brain became, 

In its own eddy boiling and o’erwrought, 

A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame : 

And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, 
My springs of life, were poison’d. ’Tis too late ! 
Yet am I changed ; though still enough the same 
In strength to bear what time can not abate, 


And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate. 


Vill. 


Something too much of this : — but now ’tis past, 

And the spell closes with its silent seal. 

Long absent Haroxp reappears at last ; 

He of the breast which fain no more would feel, 
Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne’er heal ; 
Yet Time, who changes all, had alter’d him 

In soul and aspect as in age: years steal _ 

Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb ; 


And life’s enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. 


Ix. 


His had been quaff’d too quickly, and-he found 
The dregs were wormwood’; but he fill’d again, © 
And from a purer fount, on holier ground, 

And deem’d its spring perpetual ; but in vain ! 

Still round him clung invisibly a chain 

Which gall’d for ever, fettering though unseen, 
And heavy though it clank’d not; worn with pain, 
Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, 


Entering with every step he took through many a scene. 


4 

Xe 
Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix’d 
Again in fancied safety with his kind, ᾿ 
And deem’d his spirit now so firmly ‘fix’d 
And sheath’d with an invulnerable mind, 
That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk’d behind ; 
And he, as one, might midst the many stand Ὁ 
Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find 
Fit speculation ; such as in strange land 


He found in wonder-works of God and Nature’s hand. 


LOR. 


102° 3HILPE HAROLD’S ἜΝ τὸ 


XI. 


But who can view the ripen’d rose, nor seek 
To wear it? who can curiously behold 
The smoothness and the sheen of beauty’s cheek, 
Nor feel the heart can never all grow old ? 
Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold 
The star which rises o’er her steep, nor climb? 
Harold, once more within the vortex, roll’d_ 
F On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, 
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth’s fond prime. 


ΧΙ]. 


“4 ‘But soon he knew himself the most unfit 

ΛΑ ὦ Of men to herd with Man ; with whom he held 
«| Little in common ; untaught to submit 

_ His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell’d 

' In youth by his own thoughts ; still uncompell’d, 

| He would not yield dominion of his mind 

| Τὸ spirits against whom his own rebell’d ; 

' Proud though in desolation ; which could find 

A life within itself, to breathe without mankind. 


ΧΙ. 


Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends, re 
Where roll’d the ocean, thereon was his home ; 6 ὶ 
τ Ὁ" Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, - 

hat He had the passion and the power to roam ; 3° oY 
| The deser‘, forest, cavern, breaker’s foam, NEN 
δ yf. Were unto him companionship ; they spake 

A mutual language, clearer than the tome 

Of his land’s tongue, which he would oft forsake & 
For Nature’s pages glass’d by sunbeams on the lake. SAS 


XIV. 


Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, 
Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
As their own beams ; and earth, and earth-born jars, 
And human frailties, were forgotten quite : 
Could he have kept his spirit to that flight 
He had beex happy ; but this clay will sink 
Its spark immortal, envying it the light 

ο ΤῸ which it mounts, as if to break the link 

‘That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink. 


r 


CANTO III. PILGRIMAGE 193 


XV. 


But in Man’s dwellings he became a thing 

Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome. 

Droop’d as ἃ wild-born falcon with clipt wing, | 

To whom the boundless air alone were home : oS 
Then came his fit again, which to o’ercome, 

As eagerly the barr’d-up bird will beat 

His breast and beak against his wiry dome 

Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 

Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. 


XVI. 
Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, 
With nought of hope left, but with less of gloom ; 


The weneknouledge that he lived in vain, 
That all was over on’this side the tomb. ~~~ 


Had made Despair a smilingness assume, 

Which, though ’twere wild, — as on the plunder’d wreck 

When mariners would madly meet their doom | 

With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck, — 
Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forebore to check. 


΄ { 
\ 


XVII. 

Stop ! — For thy tread is on an Empire’s dust! 

An Earthquake’s spoil is sepulchred below ! 

Is the spot mark’d with no colossal bust ? 

Nor column trophied for triumphal show ἢ 

None ; but the moral’s truth tells simpler so, 

As the ground was before, thus let it be ; — 

How that red rain hath made the harvest grow ! 

And is this all the world has gain’d by thee, 
Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory ‘ 


XVIII. 


And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, 
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo ; 

How in an hour the power which gave anntils ae 
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too ! Pek 
In “ pride of place ” (7) here last the eagle flew, oO δ 


(1) “ Prrpe of place” is a term of falconry, and means the highest pitch of 
flight. — See Macbeth, &c. 


‘« An Eagle towering in his pride of place — 
Was by a mousing Owl hawked at and killed.” 


104 CHILDE HAROLD'S CANTO UL 


Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, 

Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through : 

Ambition’s life and labours all were vain ; ΟΣ 
He wears the shatter’d links of the world’s broken chain. Ὁ 


XIX. 
' Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit Wal, ὁ 
And foam in fetters ; — but is Earth more free? “<< © 
, Did nations combat to make One submit ; iy x 
~* Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty !/ ἣν 


What! shall reviving Thraldom again be ῳΦ ἃ 
Ss The patch’d-up idol of enlighten’d days ? gf 

ας Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we 5 

Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze ‘ 
And servile knees to thrones? No; prove before ye praise! 


XX. 


If not, o’er one fallen despot boast no more ! 
In vain fair cheeks were furrow’d with hot tears 
For Europe’s flowers long rooted up before 
The trampler of her vineyards ; in vain years 
A Of lediabdepapnistion, bondage, fears, 
a Have all been borne, and broken by the accord 
" Of roused-up millions : all that most endears 
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword 
Such as Harmodius (*) drew on Athens’ tyrant lord. 


XXII. 


There was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium’s capiial had gather’d then 
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men; 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes look’d love to eyes which spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; (5) 
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! 


(1) See the famous song on Harmodius and Aristogiton. — The best Engtish 
transiation is in Bland’s Anthology, by Mr. Denman. 


“ With myrtle my sword will I wreathe,” &e. 


‘2) Qn the night previous to the action, it is said that 4 ball was given at Brussels. 


CANTO III, PILGRIMAGE. 


XXII. 


105 


Did ye not hear it? — No; ’twas but the wind, 


Or the car rattling o’er the stony street ; 
On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined ; 
"No sleep till morn, when Youth and "Pleasure 


meet 


To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — 
But, hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, 


As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 


se: πν Nene se ἐς 
Arm! Arm, it is — it is — the .cannon’s opening roar! 


XXIII. 
Within a window’d niche of that igh hall 


Sate Brunswick’s fated chieftain; he did hear 


That sound the first amidst the festival, 


And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear : 
And when they smiled because he deem’d it near, 


His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretch’d his father on a bloody bier, 


And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : 
He rush’d into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. 


XXIV. 
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 


And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, Ss 


And cheeks all pale, which but an hour.ago 
Blush’d at the praise of their own loveliness ; 


And there were sudden partings, such as press © 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne’er might be repeated ; who could guess 


If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 


XXYV. 


And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, 


“~ Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise 7 


The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Σ 


Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
While throng’d the citizens with terror dumb, 

Or whispering, with white hps—“ The foe! 

they come!” 


Or, 


They come ! 


106 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO I 


XXVI. 


And wild and high the “« Cameron’s gathering ” rose! 

The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hills 

Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : — 

How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 

Savage and shrill! But with thé breath which fills 

Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 

With the fierce native daring which instils 

The stirring memory of a thousand years, Ἑ 
And (Ὁ) Evan’s, ( Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s 


ears ! a 


XXVII. 


*. And Ardennes (*) waves above them her green leaves. 
~ Dewy with nature’s tear-drops, as they pass, 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves, 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas! 
Ere evening to be tredden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass* 
Of living valour, rolling on the foe 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 


να " a "ας 
me. 2 
XXVIII. © ᾿ ee: 
/ 4 J / oy 
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, . ο > 
Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay, af sy 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife. + «fF 
The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day Z Ἐς: 


Battle’s magnificently-stern array ! 

The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rent 

‘The earth is cover’d thick with other clay, 

Which her own clay shall cover, heap’d and pent, is 
be Rider and horse, — friend, foe, —in one red burial blent ! ff 


(1,2) Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, the “ gentle Lochie] ” of the 
** forty-five. 


(3) The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant of the “ forest of Arden- 
nes,” famous in Boiardo’s Orlando, and immortal in Shakspeare’s ‘‘ As you like 
it.” It is also celebrated in Tacitus as being the spot of successful defence by the 
Germans against the Roman encroachments. —I have ventured to adopt the name 


connected with nobler associations than those of mere slaughter. 


CANTO IIL. PILGRIMAGE. 107 


XXIX. 


Their praise is hymn’d by loftier harps than mine, 
Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 
Partly because they blend me with his line, 
And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
And partly that bright names will hallow song ; 
And his was of the bravest, and when shower’d 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinn’d files along, 
Even where the thickest of war’s tempest lower’d, 
They reach’d no_nobler breast than thine, young, gallant 
Howard"! bias 


XXX. 


There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, 
And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
But when I stood beneath the fresh green free, 
Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, | 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turn’d from all she brought to those she could not bring. (*) 


XXXI. 


I turn’d to thee, to thousands, of whom each 

And one as all a ghastly gap did make 

In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach 
Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake ; 
The Archangel’s trump, not Glory’s, must awake 


(1) My guide from Mont St. Jean over the field seemed intelligent and accurate. 
The place where Major Howard fell was not far from two tall and solitary trees 
(there was a third cut down, or shivered in the battle) which stand a few yards 
_ from each other at a pathway’s side. — Beneath these he died and was buried. 

The body has since been removed to England. A small hollow for the present 
marks where it lay, but will probably soon be effaced ; the plough has been upon it, 
and the grain is. 

After pointing out the different spots where Picton and other gallant men had 
perished, the guide said, ‘*‘ Here Major Howard lay: I was near him when wound- 
ed.” TI told him my relationship, and he seemed then still more anxious to point 
out the particular spot and circumstances. The place is one of the most marked in 
the field from the peculiarity of the two trees above mentioned. 

I went on horseback twice over the field, comparing it with my recollection of 
similar scenes.. As a plain, Waterloo seems marked out for the scene of some . 
great action, though this may be mere imagination: I have viewed with attention 
those of Platea, Troy, Mantinea, Leuctra, Cheronea, and Marathon; and the field 
around Mont St. Jean and Hougoumont appears to want little but a better cause, 
and that undefinable but impressive halo which the lapse of ages throws around a 
eelebrated spot, to vie in interest which any or al] of these, except perhaps the last 
mentioned. 


108 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO Π|. 


Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Fame 
May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake 
The fever of vain longing, and the name 

So honour’d but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. 


XXXII. 
They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn 
The tree will wither long before it fall ; . 


The hull drives. on, though. mast and sail be torn ; 
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 

In massy hoariness ; the ruin’d wall 

Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone ; 
The bars survive the captive they enthral ; 

The day, drags through tho’ storms keep out the sun 
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on : 


XXXIII. 


Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
In every fragment multiplies ; and makes ° 
A thousand images of one that was, 
The same, and still the more, the more it breaks ; 
And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, 
Living in shatter’d guise, and still, and cold, 
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, 
¥et withers on till all without is old, 

Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. 


XXXIV. 


There is a very life in our despair, 

Vitality of poison, — a quick root 

Which feeds these deadly branches ; for it were 

As nothing did we die; but Life will suit 

Itself to Sorrow’s most detested fruit, 

Like to the apples (ἢ) on the Dead Sea’s shore, 

All ashes to the taste: Did man compute 

Existence by enjoyment, and count o’er 

Such hours ’gainst years of life, — say, would he name three- 

score ἢ ᾿ 


(1) The (fabled) apples‘on the brink of the lake Asphaltes were said to be air 
without, and within ashes. — Vide Tacitus, Histor. 1. 5, 7. 


aS Se ee ψψῃιυῪ. 


νὰ a, 


REG UE TN OPN eee we. 


CANTO 111]. PILGRIMAGE. 


XXXV. 


The Psalmist number’d out the years of man: 

They are enough; and if thy tale be true, 

Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span, 

More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo! 

Millions of tongues record thee, and anew 

Their children’s lips shall echo them, and say — 

“ Here, where the sword united nations drew, 

“ Our countrymen were warring on that day!” 
And this is much, and all which will not pass away. 


XXXVI. 


There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, 
Whose spirit antithetically mixt 

One moment of the mightiest, and again 

On little objects with like firmness fixt, 
Extreme im all things! hadst thou been betwixt, 
Thy throne had still been thine, or never been ; 
For daring made thy rise as fall: thou seek’st 
Even now to re-assume the imperial mien, 


And. shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene ! 


/ XXXVII. 
/ Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou! 

/ She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name 
Was ne’er more bruited in men’s minds than now 
} That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, 

j Who woo’d thee once, thy vassal, and became 

; The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert © 


| A god unto thyself; nor less the same 


To the astounded kingdoms all inert, 
Who deem’d thee for a time whate’er thou didst assert. 


XXXVITII. 


Oh, more or less than man — in high or low, 
Battling with nations, flying from the field ; 

Now making monarchs’ necks thy footstool, now 
More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield; 
An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild, 
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, 

However deeply in men’s spirits skil’d, 

Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, 


i ; 
\ Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star. 


109 


110 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO Int. 


‘TOTS te tae ΧΈΣΙΧ. 
«. »*°Y¥et well thy soul hath brook’d the turning tide 
; With that untaught innate philosophy, 
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, 
οἶς [5 gall and wormwood to an enemy. 
pi Yn When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, 
γᾷ, To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smile 
With a sedate and all-enduring eye ; — 
When Fortune fled her spoil’d and favourite child, 
Je stood unbow’d beneath the ills upon him piled. 


XL. 


Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them 

Ambition steel’d thee on too far to show 

That just habitual scorn, which could contemn 

Men and their thoughts ; ’twas wise to feel, not so 

To were it ever on thy lip and brow, 

And spurn the instruments thou wert to use 

Till they were turn’d unto thine overthrow : 

?Tis but a worthless world to win or lose ; 
So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose. 


XLI. 


If, like a tower upon a headlong rock, 
Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, 
uch scorn of man had help’d to brave the shock ; 
/ But men’s thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne, 

Their admiration thy best weapon shone ; 
The part of Philip’s son was thine, not then . 
(Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) 
Like stern Diogenes to mock at men ; 

For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den. (ἢ) 


(1) The great error of Napoleon, ‘“ if we have writ our annals true,” was a 
continued obtrusion on mankind of his want of all community of feeling for or with 
them; perhaps more offensive to human vanity than the active cruelty of more 
trembling and suspicious tyranny. 

Such were his speeches to public assemblies as well as individuals ; and the sin- 
gle expression which he is said to have used on returning to Paris after the Russian 
winter had destroyed his army, rubbing his hands over a fire, “ This is pleasanter 
than Moscow,” would probably alienate more favour from his cause than the de- 
-truction and reverses which led to the remark. 


ANTO IIL. PILGRIMAGE. 11] 


YORI. 


But quiet to quick hosoms is a hell, 
And there hath been thy bane ; there is a fire 
And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
In its own narrow being, but aspire 
Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; 
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core, 

Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 


XLII. 


This makes the madmen who have made men nad 

By their contagion; Conquerors and Kings, 

Founders of sects.and systems, to whom add 

Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things 

Which stir too strongly the soul’s secret springs, 

And are themselves the fools to those they fool ; 

Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings 

Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school 
Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rue " 


XLIV. 


Their breath is agitation, and their life : 
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, ~ 
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife, 
That should their days, surviving perils past, 
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
With sorrow and supineness, and so die ; 
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by 

Which cats into itself, and rusts ingloriously 


XLV. 


He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find 
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow ; 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind, 
Must look down on the hate of those below. 
Though high above the sun of glory glow, 
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head, 

And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. 


1} CHILDE HAROLD’S παν τον 111. 


XLVI. 


Away with these! true Wisdom’s world will be 

Within its own creation, or in thine, 

Maternal nature! for who teems like thee, 

Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine ? 

There Harold gazes on a work divine, 

A blending of all beauties ; streams and delis, 

Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountain, vine, 

And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells 
From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells. 


XLVII. 


And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, 

Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, 

All tenantless, save to the crannying wind, 

Or holding dark communion with the cloud. 

There was a day when they were young and proud, 

Banners on high, and battles pass’d below ; 

But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, 

And those which waved are shredless dust ere now, 
And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow. 


XLVIII. 


Beneath these battlements, within those walls, 
Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud state 
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, 
Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 
What want these outlaws (’) conquerors should have? 
But History’s purchased page to call them great ? 
A wider space, an ornamented grave ? 
Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as 
brave. 


ALIX. 


In their baronial feuds and single fields, 

What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! 

And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields, 
With emblems well devised by amorous pride, 
Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide ; 


(1) ‘“ What wants that knave 
That a king should have?” : 
was King James’s question on meeting Johnny Armstrong and his followers in fuil 
accoutrements. — See the Ballad. 


CANTO III. PILGRIMAGE. 112 


But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on 

Keen contest and destruction near allied, 

And many a tower for some fair mischief won, 
Saw the discolour’d Rhine beneath its ruin run. 


᾿ L. 


But Thou, exulting and abounding river ! 
Making their waves a blessing as they flow 
Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever 
Could man but leave thy bright creation so, 
Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
With the sharpe scythe of conflict, — then to see 
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 
Earth paved like Heaven; and to seem such to me, 
Even now what wants thy stream ? — that it should Lethe be. 


ils 


A thousand battles have assail’d thy banks, 

But these and half their fame have pass’d away, 

And Slaughter heap’d on high his weltering ranks ; 

Their very graves are gone, and what are they? 

Thy tide wash’d down the blood of yesterday, 

And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 

Glass’d with its dancing light the sunny ray ; 

But o’er the blacken’d memory’s blighting dream 
Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem 


LII. 


Thus Harold inly said, and pass’d along, - 
Yet not insensibly to all which here 
Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
In glens which might have made even exile dear : 
Though on his brow were graven lines austere, 
And tranquil sternness which had ta’en the place 
Of feelings fierier far but less severe, 
Joy was not always absent from his face, 
But o’er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace. 


1.111. 


Nor was all love shut from him, though his days 

Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 

It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 

On such as smile upon us; the heart must 

Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust 
VOL. 111.-ῷ 


114. CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO ΠΣ 


ἢ ἴῃ wean’d it from all worldlings: thus he felt, 

For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust 

In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, 
And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. 


LIV. 
And he had learn’d to love, — 1 know not why, 
For this in such as him seems strange of mood, — 
The helpless looks of blooming infancy, 
Even in its earliest nurture ; what subdued} 
To change like this, a mind so far imbued 
With scorn of man, it little boots to know ; 
But thus it was ; and though in solitude 
Small power the nipp’d affections have to grow, 
in him this glow’d when all beside had ceased to glow. 


Lv. 
And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, 
Which unto his was bound by stronger ties 
Than the church links withal; and, though unwed, 
That love was pure, and, far above disguise, 
Had stood the test of mortal enmities 
Still undivided, and cemented more 
By peril, dreaded most in female eyes ; 
But this was firm, and from a foreign shore 
Weil to that heart might his these absent greetings pour! 


i 
The castled crag of Drachenfels (*) 


Frowns o’er the wide and winding Rhine, 
Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
Between the banks which bear the vine, 
And hills all rich with blossom’d trees, 
And fields which promise corn and wine, 
And scatter’d cities crowning these, 
Whose far white walls along them shine, 
Have strew’d a scene, which I should see 
With double joy wert thow with me. 


(1) ‘The castle of Drachenfels stands on the highest summit of “ the Seven 
Mountains,” over the Rhine banks: it is in ruins, and connected with some singu- 
ar traditions: it is the first in view on the road from Bonn, but on the opposite 
side of the river; on this bank, nearly facing it, are the remains of another, called 
the Jew’s castle, and a large cross commemorative of the murder of a chief by his 
brother; the number of castles and cities along the course of the Rhine on both 
sides is every great, and their situations remarkably beautiful. 


CANTO IIL. PILGRIMAGE. 115 


2. 
And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes, 
And hands which offer early flowers, 
Walk smiling o’er this paradise ; 
Above, the frequent feudal towers 
Through green leaves lift their walls of gray. 
And many a rock which steeply lowers, 
And noble arch in proud decay, 
Look o’er this vale of vintage-bowers ; 
But one thing want these banks of Rhine, — 
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine! 


{ send the lilies given to me ; 

Though long before thy hand they touch, 
I know that they must wither’d be, 

But yet reject them not as such ; 

For I have cherish’d them as dear, 
Because they yet may meet thine eye, 
And guide thy soul to mine even here, 
When thou behold’st them drooping nigh, 
And know’st them gather’d by the Rhine, 
And offer’d from my heart to thine! 


4. 
The river nobly foams and flows, h. 
The charm of this enchanted ground, 
And all its thousand turns disclose 
Some fresher beauty varying round : 
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 
Through life to dwell delighted here ; 
Nor could one earth a spot be found 
To nature and to me so dear, 
Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine! 


LVI. 
By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, 
There is a small and simple pyramid, 
Crowning the summit of the verdant mound, 
Beneath its base are heroes’ ashes hid, 
Our enemy’s — but let not that forbid 
Honour to Marceau! o’er whose early tomb 
Tears, big tears, gush’d from the rough soldier’s lid, 
Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, 
Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume. 


116 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO Mik 


LVII. 


Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career, — 
His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes; 
And fitly may the stranger lingering here 
Pray for his gallant spirit’s bright repose ; 
For he was Freedom’s champion, one of those, 
The few in number, who had not o’erstept 
The charter to chastise which she bestows 
On such as wield her weapons ; he had kept 
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o’er him wept. (’) 


LVIII. 


, 


Here Ehrenbreitstein, (*) with her shatter’d wall 

Black with the miner’s blast upon her height 

Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball 

Rebounding idly on her strength did light : 

A tower of victory! from whence the flight 

Of baffled foes was watch’d along the plain : 

But Peace destroy’d what War couid never blight, 

And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer’s rain — 
On which the iron shower for years had pour’d in vain. 


(1) The monument of the young and lamented General Marceau (killed by a 
rifle-ball at Alterkirchen, on the last day of the fourth year of the French republic) 
still remains as described. 

The inscriptions on his monument are rather too long, and not required: his name 
was enough; France adored, and her enemies admired ; both wept over him.—His 
funeral was attended by the generals and detachments from both armies. In the 
same grave General Hoche is interred, a gallant man in every sense of the word: 
but though he distinguished himself uel in battle, he had not gained the good for- 
tune to die there: his death was attende by suspicions of poison. 

A separate monument (not over his body, which is buried by Marceau’s) 1s raised 
for him near Andernach, opposite to which one of his most memorable exploits was 
performed, in throwing a bridge to an isiand on the Rhine. The shape and style 
are different from that of Marceau’s, and the inscription more simple and pleasing, 


‘““'The Army of the Sambre and Meuse 
ἐξ to its Commander-in-chief 
* Hoche.7 


This is all as it should be. Hoche was esteemed among the first of France’s 
earlier generals before Buonaparte monopolized her triumphs. He was the destined 
commander of the invading army of Ireland. 


(2) Ehrenbreitstein, 1. c. “ the broad stone of Honour,” one of the strongest fortress- 
es in Europe, was dismantled and blown up by the French at the truce of Leoben.— 
Ithad been and could only be, reduced by famine or treachery. It yielded to the for- 
mer, aided by surprise. After having seen the fortifications of Gibraltar and Malta, 
itdid not much strike by comparison, but the situation is commanding. General 
Marceau besieged it in vain for some time, and 1 slept in a room where 1 was shown 
a window at which he is said te have been standing observing the progress of the 
siege by moonlight, when a ball struck immediately below it. 


ΘΑΝΤΟΠΙ. PILGRIMAGE. 117 


LIX. 
Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long delighted 


The stranger fain would linger on his way ! 
Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray ; 
And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey 
On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, 
Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay 
Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, 

Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year. 


oe 
LX. Ζῶ 


Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu ! 

There can be no farewell to scene like thine ; 

The mind is colour’d by thy every hue ; 

And if reluctantly the eyes resign 

Their cherish’d gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine! 
Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise ; 
More nightly spots may rise — more glaring shine, 
But none unite in one attaching maze 


The brilliant, fair, and soft, — the glories of old days, 


LXI. 


The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom 
Of coming ripeness, the white city’s sheen, 
The rolling stream, the precipice’s gloom, 
The forest’s growth, and Gothic wal! between, 
The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been 
In mockery of man’s art; and these withal 
A race of faces happy as the scene 
Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, 
Still springing o’er thy banks, though Empires near them fall. 


LXIl. 


But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
And throned Eternity in icy halls 
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow! 
All that expands the spirit, yet appals, 
Gather around these summits, as to show 
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below. 


115 CHILDE HAROLD’S Bere i 


LXIil. 


But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, 
There is a spot should not be pass’d in vain, — 
Morat! the proud, the patriot field! where man 
May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, 
Nor blush for those who conquer’d on that plain ; 
Here Burgundy bequeath’d his tombless host, 
A bony heap, through ages to remain, 
Themselves their monument ; — the Stygian coast 
Unsepulchred they roam’d, and shriek’d each wandering 
ghost. (’) 
LXIV. : 
While Waterloo with Canne’s carnage vies, 
Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand ; 
They were true Glory’s stainless victories, 
Won by the unambitious heart and hand 
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, 
All unbought champions in no princely cause 
Of vice-entail’d Corruption; they no land 
Doom’d to bewail the blasphemy of laws 
Making kings’ rights divine, by some Draconic clause. 


LXV. 


By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days ; 
’Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, 
And looks as with the wild-bewilder’d gaze 
Of one to stone converted by amaze, 
Yet still with consciousness; and there it stands 
Making a marvel that it not decays, 
When the coeval pride of human hands, 
Levell’d Aventicum, (*) hath strew’d her subject lands. 


(1) The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of bones diminished to a small number 
by the Burgundian legion in the service of France, who anxiously effaced this record 
of their ancestors’ less successful invasions. A few still remain, notwithstanding the 
pains taken by the Burgundians for ages, (all who passed that way removing a bone 
to their own country,) and the less justifiable larcenies of the Swiss postilions, whe 
carried them off to sell for knife-handles, a purpose for which the whiteness imbibea 
by the bleaching of years had rendered them in great request. Of these relies I 
ventured to bring away as much as may have made a quarter ofa hero, for which the 
sole excuse is, that if I had not, the next passer by might have perverted them to worse 
uses than the careful preservation which I intend for them. 


(2) Aventicum (near Morat) was the Roman capital of Helvetia, where Avenches 
now stands. 


hee 
"= at 


CANTO III, PILGRIMAGE. 119 


LXVI. 


And there — oh! sweet and sacred be the name ! — 
Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave 
Her youth to Heaven ; her heart, beneath a claim 
Nearest to Heaven’s, broke o’er a father’s grave. 
Justice is sworn ’gainst tears, and hers would crave 
The life she lived in; but the judge was just, 
And then she died on him she could not save. 
Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, 

And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust. (*) 


LXVII. 
But these are deeds which should not pass away, 
And names that must not wither, though the earth 
Forgets her empires with a just decay, 
The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth : 
The high, the mountain-majesty of worth 
Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, 
And from its immortality look forth 
In the sun’s face, like yonder Alpine snow, (’*) 

im penne sia oka all things below. 


» Ἂν" "Waco = ὶ Po 
Dae LXVIII. xf 


Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, 1g 

The mirror where the stars and mountains view ἢ 

The stillness of their aspect in each trace 

Its clear depth yields of their fair height and hue : 

There is too much of man here, to look through 

With a fit mind the might which I behold ; 

But scon in me shall loneliness renew we 

Thoughts hid, but not less cherished than of old, τ 
Ere mingling with the herd had penn’d me in their fold. 


λ 


1) Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died soon after a vain endeavour te 
save her father, condemned to death asa traitor by Aulus Cecina. Her epitaph was 
discovered many years ago ;—it is thus : — 

Julia Alpinula 
Hic jaceo 
Infelicis patris, infelix proles 
Dee Aventiz Sacerdos ; 
Exorare patris necem non potni 
Male mori in fatis ille erat. 
Vixi annos ΧΧΤΙΙ. 

[ know of no human composition so affecting as this, nor a history of deeper interest. 
These are the names and actions which ought not to perish, and to which we turn with 
a true and healthy tenderness, from the wretched and glittering detail of a confused 
mass of conquests and battles, awith which the mind is roused for a time to a false and 
feverish sympathy, from whence it recurs at length with all the nausea consequent on 
such intoxication. 


(2) This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc, (June 3d, 1816,) which even at this 
ἀν dazzles mine. 


CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO IIL 


LIX. 
To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind: 
All are not fit with them to stir and toil, 
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
In the hot throng, where we become the spoil 
Of our infection, till too late and long 
We may deplore and struggle with the coil, 
in wretched interchange of wrong for wrong 


Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong. 


LXX. 
There, in a moment, we may plunge our years 
In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
Of our own soul turn all our blood to tears, 
And colour things to come with hues of Night ; 
(The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
'To those that walk in darkness : on the sea, 
The boldest steer but where their ports invite, 
But there are wanderers o’er Eternity 


Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor’d ne’er shall be. 


“Ts it not better, then, to.be alone, 


LXXxI. 


ee) 


And love Earth only for its earthly sake? 


“By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, (7) 


Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 


Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 


A fair but froward infant her own care, 
Kissing its cries away as these awake ; — 


P dig: it not better thus our lives to wear, 
Th 


ae 


‘han join the crushing crowd, doom’d to inflict or bear? 


LXXII. 
I live not in myself, but I become 
Portion of that around me: and to me 
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
Of human cities torture: I can see 


- Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 


A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, 


~Class’d among creatures, when the soul can flee 


é 
e 


And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 


,' S&S of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 


* (July 20th.) I this day observed for some time the distinct reflection of Mont Blanc 
and Mont Argentiére in the calm of the lake, which I was crossing in my boat; the 
distance of these mountains from their mirror is 60 miles. 

(1) The colour of the Rhone at Geneva, is blue, to a depth of tint which I have never 
s*en equalled in water, salt or fresh, except in the Mediterranean and Archipelago. 


CANTO III, PILGRIMAGE. 197 


LXXIil. 
And thus I am absorb’d, and this is life ; 
I look upon the peopled desert past, 
As on a place of agony and strife, 
Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, 
To act and suffer, but remount at last 
With a fresh pinion ; which I feel to spring, oe 
Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast AF 
αὐλοὶ it would cope with, on “delighted wing, 
purnin clay-cold bonds which round ow our being ei 


LXXIV. 
And when, at length, the mind shall be all free 
From what it hates in this degraded form, 
Reft of its carnal life, save ay shall be 
Existent happier i in the fly and worm, — 
When elements ‘to elements conform, 
And dust is as it should be, shall 1 not 
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? 
{The bodiless thought ? the Spirit of each spot ? 
Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot 7 


\ 


Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part 
Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 

Is not the love of these deep in my heart 

With a pure passion? should I not contemn 
All objects, if compared with these? and stem 
A tide of suffering, rather than forego 


Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm δ κ 


Of those whose eyes are only turn’d below, 


Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow ? _ 


LXXVI. 
But this is not my theme; and I return 
To that which is immediate, and require 
Those who find contemplation in the urn, 
To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, 
A native of the land where I respire 
The clear air for a while — a passing guest, 
Where he became a being, — whose desire a 
Was to be glorious ; ’twas a foolish quest, 
The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest. 


es LXV: οὐδ gay ; 


e, 


122 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO Tl. 


LXXVII. 
Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, 
The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
Enchantment over passion, and from woe 
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 
The breath which made him wretched ; yet_he knew 
_- How to make madness beautiful, and cast poms 
x /O°er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue 
/ Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past 
/The eyes, which o’er them shed tears feelingly and fast. 


# 
ὦ Ἐς Sar LXXVIII. 
* > τῇ, ΗΚ love was passion’s essence — as a tree 
«es © On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame 
~ sy» ,Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be 

> Thus, and enamour’d, were in him the same. 
= «=< » But his was not the love of living dame, 
yes a Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, 


But of ideal beauty, which became 
In him existence, and o’erflowing teems 
Along his burning page, distemper’d though it seems. 


ΝΣ 


ae" DLXXIX. 
_ .s° This breathed itself to life in Julie, thas 
~~ <= Invested her with all that’s wild and sweet ; ‘ 
ef This hallow’d, too, the memorable kiss 
* Which every morn his fever’d lip would greet, 
From hers, who but with friendship his would meet, 
“But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast 
Flash’d the thrill’d spirit’s love-devouring heat : 
In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest, 
. Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest. (’) 


UXXX. 
©. His life was one long war with self-sought foes, 
~ Or friends by him self-banish’d; for his mind 
Had grown Suspicion’s sanctuary, and chose, 
For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind 
’Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. 
But he was phrensied, — wherefore, who may know ! 
Since cause might be which skill could never find ; 
Sut he was phrensied by disease or woe, 
To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show. 
(1) This refers to the account in his ‘‘ Confessions” of his passion for the Comtesse 
dV’ Houdetot, (the mistress of St. Lambert,) and his long walk every moming for the 


sake of the singleykiss which was the common salutation of French acquaintance.— 
Rosseau’s description of his feelings on this occasion may be considered as the most 


CANTO III. PILGRIMAGE. 123 


LXXXI. 
For then he was inspired, and from him came, 
As from the Pythian’s mystic cave of yore, 
Those oracles which set the world in flame, 
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more: | 
Did he not this for France? which lay before 
Bow’d to the inborn tyranny of years ? 
Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, 
Till by the voice of him and his compeers 
Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o’ergrown fears 7 


LXXXII. Ο 
They made themselves a fearful monument! der ie 
The wreck of old opinions — things which grew, AB? GFF 
Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent, Cy ΩΝ, 
And what behind it lay all earth shall view. ae oe 
But good with ill they also overthrew, ere? 
Leaving but ruins, wherewith ‘to rebuild a eS 
Upon the same foundation, and renéw > ῳ 
Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour re- -fill’d, 

As her etofore, because ambition was self-will’d. 


LXXXIII. 
But this will not endure, nor be endured ! 
Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. 
They might have used it better, but, allured 
By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt 
On one another; pity ceased to melt 
With her once natural charities. But they, 
Who in oppression’s darkness caved had dwelt, 
They were not eagles, nourish’d with the day ; 
What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey? 


LXXXIV. 
What deep wounds ever closed without a-secar 7 
The heart’s bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That which disfigures it; and they who war 
With their own hopes, and have been vanquish’d, bear 
Silence, but not submission: in his lair 
Fix'd Passion holds his breath, until the hour 
‘Which shall atone for years ; none need | despair : 
It came, it cometh, and will come,— the > power 
To punish or forgive —— in one we we shall be slower. 


passionate, yet not impure, description and expression of love that ever kindled into 
words ; which, after all, must be felt, from their very force, to be inadequate.te the del - 
neation—a painting can give no sufficient idea of the ocean. 


124 


That I with stern delights should e’er have been so moved. 


CHILDE :I7AROLD’S CANTO 


LXXXV. 


Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, 


With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
Which warns me, with.its.stillness, to_ forsake 


Earth’s troubled waters fora purer spring. — 


This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 

To waft me from distraction; once I loved 
Torn ocean’s roar, but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a sister’s voice reproved, 


LXXXVI. 


It is the hush of night, and all between 

Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
Mellow’d and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 

Save darken’d Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep ; and drawing near, 

There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 


Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more ; 


LXXXVII. 


He is an evening reveller, who makes 

His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; 

At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill, 
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 

All silently their tears of love instil, 
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 


Deep into N ature’s breast the spirit ef her hues. 


LXXXVIII. 


Ye stars !_which are the poetry of heaven! 

If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men and empires, — ’tis to be forgiven, 
That in our aspirations to be great, 

Our destinies o’erleap their mortal state, 

And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are 

A beauty and a mystery, and create " 

In us such love and reverence from afar, 


ΠῚ. 


That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star. 


CANTO IIL. PILGRIMAGE. 125 


LXXXIX. 


All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep, @ 
| But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; @ 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep : — δ. ti 
All heaven and earth are still: From the high host 9 Ἄν ἢ 
Of stars, to the lull’d lake and mountain-coast 48 .%. ~ 


Sy” 

All is concenter’d in a life intense, @. ὯΝ τ « 

| Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, /9 eit 
But hath a part of being, and a sense ε Δ 


Of that which is of all Creator and defence. © 


Kc. yee 

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt Phe 

In solitude, where we are least alone; i 

A truth, which through our being then doth melt 

And purifies from self: it is a tone, 

The soul and source of music, which makes known 

Kternal harmony, and sheds a charm, 

Like to the fabled Cytherea’s zone, 

Binding all things with beauty ; — ’twould disarm 
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. 


XCiI. 


Not vainly did the early Persian make 

His altar the high places and the peak 

Of earth-o’ergazing mountains (’), and thus take 

A fit and unwall’d temple, there to seek 

The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, ΐ 

Uprear’d of human hands. Come, and compare: 

Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, | 

With Nature’s realms of worship, earth and air, 
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray’r! 


(1) It is to be recollected, that the most beautiful and impressive doctrmes of the 
divine Founder of Christianity were delivered, not in the T'emple, but on the Mount. 

To wave the question of devotion, and turn to human eloquence,—the most effectual 
and splendid specimens were not pronounced within walls. Demosthenes addressed 
the public and popular assemblies, Cicero spoke in the forum. That this added to 
their effect on the mind of both orator and hearers, may be conceived from the differ- 
ence between what we read of the emotions then and there produced, and those we 
ourselves experience in the perusal in the closet. It is one thing to read the Iliad at 
Sigeeum and on the tumuli, or by the springs with Mount Ida above, and the plain and 
rivers and Archipelago around you; and another to trim your taper over it in a snug 
library — this I know. 

Were the early and rapid progress of what is called Methodism to be attributed to 
any cause beyond the enthusiasm excited by its vehement faith and doctrines (the truth 
or error of which I presume neither to canvass nor to question) I should venture to a=- 
scribe it to the practice of preaching in the fields, and the unstudied and extemporane- 
ous effusions of its teachers. 


| 
“ 
ιν» 


% 


136 CHILDE HAROLD'S CANTO IIL. 


“—_ 62 ppkete ΚΙ ᾿ r 
caxeuyee 4 XCIi. 


/ Thy sky is changed ! —and such a change! Oh night, (’) 
/ Ang storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 
/ Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
| @fa dark eye in woman! Far along, 
From, peak to peak, the rattling crags among Ge 
Leaps the livethunder! Not from one lone cloud, 
But every mountain now nath found a tongue, 
| And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
\ Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! 


\ 


-τσκὰ 


ST ia 


XCIll. 
And this is in the night: — Most glorious night! 
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — Bx 
A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! 
And now again ’tis black, — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, 
As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth. 
: XCIV. 


Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between 
- Heights which appear as lovers who have parted 
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted ! 
Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, 
Love was the very root of the fond rage 
Which blighted their life’s bloom, and then departed : 
Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
Of years all winters, — war within themselves to wage. 


uf 
fn) 


The Mussulmans, whose erroneous devotion (at least in the lower orders) is most 
sincere, and therefore impressive, are accustomed to repeat their prescribed orisons and 
prayers wherever they may be, at the stated hours—of course frequently in the open 
air, kneeling upon a light mat, (which they carry for the purpose of a bed or cushion as 
required :) the ceremony lasts some minutes, during which they are totally absorbed, and 
oniy living in their supplication : nothing can disturb them. On me the simple and en- 
tire sincerity of these men, and the spirit which appeared to be within and upon them, 
made a far greater impression than any general rite which was ever performed in places 
of worship, of which I have seen those of almost every persuasion under the sun ; in- 
cluding most of own sectaries, and the Greek, the Catholic, the Armenian, the Luthe- 
ran, the Jewish, and the Mahometan. Many of the negroes, of whom there are num- 
bers in the Turkish empire, are idolaters, and have free exercise of their belief and its 
rites; some of these I had a distant view of at Patras, and from what I could make out 
of them, they appeared to be of a truly Pagan description, and not very agreeable to a 
spectator. 


(1) The thunder-storm to which these lines refer occurred on the 13th of June, 1816 
at midnight. I have seen, among the Acroceraunian mountains of Chimari, several more 
terrible, but none more beautiful. 


CANTO Ul. PILGRIMAGE. 


XCV. 


Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way 
The mightiest of the storms hath ta’en his stand : 
For here, not one, but many, make their play, 
And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand, 
Flashing and cast around: of all the band, 
The brightest through these parted hills hath fork’d 
His lightnings, — as if he did understand, 
That in such gaps as desolation work’d, 

There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk’d. 


XCVI. 
Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye! 
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
Things that have made me watchful ; the far roll 
Of your departing voices, is the knoll 
Of what in me is sleepless, —ifI rest. 
But where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal? ὁ ὁὃδἀἜῈὁ 
Are ye like those within the human breast ? 

Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest ? 


XCVII. 


Could I embody and unbosom now 
That which is most within me, — could I wreak 
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, 
_ ~All that I would have sought, and all I seek, 
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one word, 
And that one word were Lightning, I would speak ; 
~ But as it is, I live and die unheard, 
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. 


J 


With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, 
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, 
And living as if earth contain’d no tomb, — 
And glowing into day: we may resume 
The march of our existence: and thus I, 
Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room 
And food for meditation, nor pass by 
Much, that may give us pause, if ponder’d fittingly. _. 


| 
i/ 


οὐ] 


a # 4 
— Nee eee) ἢ ᾿ ao αὶ “a 
XCVIII. “ 
The morn is up again, the dewy morn, 


128 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO lil. 


XCIX. 
Clarens! sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep Love, 
Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought ; 
Thy trees take root in Love; the snows above 
The very Glaciers have his colours caught, 
and sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought (’) 
By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks, 
The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought 
In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, 
Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks. 


(1) Rousseau’s Héloise, Lettre 17, part 4, note. ‘Ces montagnes sont si Lautes 
qu’une demi-heure aprés le soleil couche, leurs sommets sont encore éclairés de ses 
rayons; dont le rouge forme sur ces cimes blanches wne belle couleur de rose, qu’on 
appercoit de fort io.” 

This applies more particularly to the heights over Meillerie. 

“ Jallaia Vevay loger ἃ la Clef, et pendant deux jours que j’y restai sans voir 
personne, je pris pour cette ville un amour qui m’a suivi dans tous mes voyages, et 
qui m’y a fait établir enfin les héros de mon roman. Je dirois volontiers ἃ ceux qui 
ont du gotit et qui sont sensibles: alez ἃ Vevay—visitez le pays, examinez leGsites, 
promenez-vous sur le lac, et dites si la Nature n’a pas fait ce beau pays a une 
Julie, pour une Claire, et pour un St. Preux; mais ne les y cherchez pas.”g Les 
Confessions, livre iv. page 306, Lyons ed, 1796. 

In July, 1816, I made a voyage round the Lake of Geneva; and, as far as my 
own observations have led me in a not uninterested nor inattentive survey of all the 
scenes most celebrated by Rousseau in his ‘* Héloise,”’ I can safely say, that in this 
there is no exaggeration. It would be difficult to see Clarens, (with the scenes 
around it, Vevay, Chillon, Béveret, St. Gingo, Meillerie, Eivan, and the entrances 
of the Rhone,) without being forcibly struck with its peculiar adaptation to the per- 
sons and events with which it has been peopled. But this is not all: the feeiing 
with which all around Clarens, and the opposite rocks of Meillerie, is invested, is of 
a still higher and more comprehensive order than the mere sympathy with individual 
passion ; it is a sense of the existence of love in its most extended and sublime ca- 
pacity, and of our own participation of its good and of its glory: it is the great prin- 
ciple of the universe, which is there more condensed, but not less manifested ; and 
of which, though knowing ourselves a part, we lose our individuality, and mingle in 
the beauty of the whole. 

If Rousseau had never written, nor lived, the same associations would not less 
have belonged to such scenes. He has added to the interest of his works by their 
adoption ; he has shown his sense of their beauty by the selection ; but they have 
done that for him which no human being could do for them. 

I had the fortune (good or evil as it might be) to sail from Meillerie (where we 
landed for some time) to St. Gingo during a lake storm, which added to the magnifi- 
cence of all around, although occasionally accompanied by danger to the boat, which 
was small and overloaded. It was over this very part of the lake that Rousseau has 
driven the boat of St. Preux and Madame Wolmar to Meillerie for shelter during a 
tempest. 

On gaining the shore at St. Gingo, I found that the wind had been sufficiently 
strong to blow down some fine old chestnut-trees on the lower part of the moun- 
tains. 

On the opposite height of Clarens is a chateau. The hills are covered with vine- 
yards, and interspersed with some small but beautiful woods; one of these was 
named the ““ Bosquet de Julie ;” and it is remarkable that, though long ago cut down 
by the brutal selfishness of the monks of St. Bernard, (to whom the land appertain- 
ed,) that the ground might be enclosed into a vineyard for the miserable drones of an 
execrable superstition, the inhabitants of Clarens still point out the spot where its 
trees stood, calling it by the name which consecrated and survived them. 

Rousseau has not been particularly fortunate in the preservation of the “ local 
habitations” he has given to “‘ airy nothings.” The Prior of Great St. Bernard has 
cut down some of his woods for the sake of a few casks of wine, and Buonaparte has 


CANTO ΠΙ. PILGRIMAGE. 129 


Clarens ! by heavenly feet | thy paths are trod, — 

Undying Love’s, who here ascends a throne 

To which the steps are mountains ; where the god 

Is a pervading life and light, — so shown 

Not on those summits solely, nor alone 

In the still cave and forest ; o’er the flower 

His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown, 

His soft and summer breath, whose tender power 
Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour 


Cl. 
All things are here of him; from the black pines, 
Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar 
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines 
Which slope his green path downward to the shore, 
Where the bow’d waters meet him, and adore, 
Kissing his feet with murmurs ; and the wood, 
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, 
But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood 

Offering to him, and nis, a populous solitude. 


Cll. 
A populous solitude of bees and birds, 
And fairy-form’d and many colour’d things, 
Who worship him with notes more sweet than words, 
And innocently open their glad wings, 
Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs, 
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
Of stirring branches, and ile bud which brings 
The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, 
‘Minsling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. 


CII. 

He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, 
And make his heart a spirit; he who knows 
That tender mystery, will love the more, 
For this is Love’s recess, where vain men’s woes, 
And the world’s waste, have driven him far from those, 
‘For ’tis his nature to advance or die ; 
He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 
Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 

With the immortal lights, in its eternity ! 


ievelled part of the rocks of Meillerie in improving the road to the Simplon. The 
road is an excellent one, but I cannot quite agree with a remark which } heard made 
‘hat ‘La route yaut mieux que les souvenirs.” 


VOL. eK by 


130 


CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO ILL 


CIV. 


’T was not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, 
Peopling it with affections ; but he found 

It was the scene which passion must allot 

Τὸ the mind’s purified beings ; ’twas the ground 
Where early Love his Psyche’s zone unbound, 
And hallow’d it with loveliness: ’tis lone, 

And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, 

And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here the Rhone 


Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear’d a throne. 


CV. 


Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes (ἢ) 
ΟΥ̓ names which unto you bequeath’d a name ; 

Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, 

A path to perpetuity of fame : 

They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim 

Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile 

Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the flame 
Of Heaven, again assail’d, if Heaven the while 


On man and man’s research could deign do more than smile 


CVE. 


he one was fire and fickleness, a child, 

Most mutable in wishes, but in mind, 

A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or wild, — 
Historian, bard, philosopher, combined ; 

He multiplied himself among mankind, 

The Proteus of their talents: But his own 
Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the wind, 
Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, — 


Now to o’erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. 


CVII. 


The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, 

And hiving wisdom with each studious year, 

In medtiation dwelt, with learning wrought, 

And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, 
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer ; 

The lord of irony, — that master-spell, 

Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, 
And doom’d him to the zealot’s ready Hell, 


Which answer to all doubts so eloquently well. 


(1) Voltaire and Gibbon, 


a 


CANTO Lil. PILGRIMAGE. 131 


ΟΥ̓́Τ. 


Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them, 
If merited, the penalty is paid ; 
It is not ours to judge, — far less condemn ; 
The hour must come when such things shall be made 
Known unto all, — or hope and dread allay’d 
By slumber, on one pillow, — in the dust, 
Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay’d ; 
And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 
’T will be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. 


CIX. 


But let me quit man’s works, again to read | 
His Maker’s, spread around me, and suspend 
This page, which from my reveries I feed, 
Until it seems prolonging without end. 
The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, 
And I must pierce them, and survey whate’er 
May be permitted, as my steps I bend 
To their most great and growing region, where 
The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air. ᾿ 


CX. 


Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee, 

Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, 

Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, 

To the last halo of the chiefs and sages 

Who glorify thy consecrated pages ; 

Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; stil] 

The fount at which the panting mind assuages 

Here thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, 
Flows from the eternal source of Rome’s imperial hill. 


CXI. 


Thus far have I proceeded in a theme Ἢ 
Renew’d with no kind auspices : — to feel J 
We are not what we have been, and to deem 

We are no a ould be, ΞΞ to steel 

The heart against itself ; “and to conceal, με 
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught, — ‘i 
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal, — : 
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, > 

Is a stern task of soul : — No matter, — it is taught. 


132s CHILDE HAROLD’S. CANTO III. 


ΟΧΙΙ. 
» “And for these words, thus woven into song, 

» «> It may be that they are a harmless wile, — 
The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, 
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile 
My breast, or that of others, for a while. 

, Fame is the thirst of youth, — but I am not 

ἃ 80 young as to regard men’s frown or smile, 
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot ; 

Τ stood and stand alone, — remember’d or forgot. 


CXIII. 

I have not loyed the world, nor the world me ; 

fhave not flatter’d its rank breath, nor bow’d 

To its idolatries a patient knee, — 

Nor coin’d my cheek to smiles, — nor cried aloud 

In worship of an echo ; in the crowd 
- They could not deem me one of such; I stood 

Among them, but not of them; in a shroud 

Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, 
Had 1 not filed (*) my mind, which thus itself subdued. 


CXIv. 
I have not loved the world, nor the world me, — 
But let us part fair foes ; I do believe 
Though I have found them not, that there may be 
Words which are things, — hopes which will not deceive, 
/ And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 
/ Snares for the failing: 1 would also deem 
O’er others’ griefs that some sincerely grieve ; (ἢ) 
| That two, or one, are almost what they seem, — 
| That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. 


CXV. 
_ My daughter! with thy name this song begun — 
= My daughter! with thy name thus much shall end — 
- 1566 thee not, —I hear thee not, — but none 
Can be so wrapt " thee ; thou art the friend 
To whom the shadows of far years extend : 
Albeit my brow thou never should’st behold, 
My voice shall with thy future visions blend, 
And reach into thy heart, — when mine is cold, — 
A token and a tone, even from thy father’s mould. 
(1) ‘Tf it be thus, 
For Banquo’s issue have I filed my mind.” 
Macbeth. 


(2) It is said by Rochefoucault, that “ there is always something in the misfortunes 
of men’s best friends not displeasing to them.” 


4 


CANTO IIL. PILGRIMAGE. 


CXVI. 
To aid thy mind’s developement, — to watch 
Thy dawn of little joys, — to sit and see 
Almost thy very growth, — to view thee catch 
Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee! 
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, 
And print on thy soft cheek a parent’s kiss, — 
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me - 
Yet this was in my nature : —as it is, 

I know not what is there, yet something like to this. 


wb. 
XS 
“dé 


CXVII. 
»Yet, though dull hate as duty should be taught, 
I know that thou wilt love me; though my name 
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught 
With desolation, — and a broken claim: 


133 


Though the grave closed between us, ’twere the same, 


I know that thou wilt love me ; though to drain 
My blood from out thy being, were an aim, 
And an attainment, — all would be in vain, — 


Still thou would’st love me, still that more than life retain. 


CXVIII. 


The child of love, — though born in bitterness, 
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
These were the elements, — and thine no 655." 
As yet such are around thee, — but thy fire 
Shall be more temper’d, and thy hope far higher. 
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O’er the sea, 
And from the mountains where I now respire, 
Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, 

As, with a sigh, I deem thou might’st have been to m 


el 


Pe Mt ἧς x 


x 


re 


f 


~ 


CHILDE HAROLD’S 


PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 


Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Romagna, 
Quel Monte che divide, e quel che serra 
Italia, e un mare el altro, che la bagna. 
Ariosto, Satira ut. 


hig pete τὴ one 


Wn | eat 


Φ κ᾿. 


iy yj ᾿ Ag at 
Δ ed 


ΤΟ 


JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. A.M. F.R.S 


My pear Hosnouss, 


AFTER an interval of eight years between the composition 
of the first and last cantos of Childe Harold, the conclusion ot 
the poem is about to be submitted to the public. In parting with 
so old a friend, it is not extraordinary that I should recur to one 
still older and better, — to one who has beheld the birth and death 
of the other, and to whom I am far more indebted for the social ad- 
vantages of an enlightened friendship, than — though not ungrate- 


ya 1 
«3 


ful —I can, or could be, to Childe Harold, for any public favour 
reflected through the poem on the poet, — to one, whom I have 
known long, and accompanied far, whom 1 have found wakeful 
over my sickness and kind in my sorrow, glad in my prosperity 
and firm in my adversity, true in counsel and trusty in peril — 
to a friend often tried and never found wanting ; — to yourself. 
In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth ; and in dedicating to 
you in its complete, or at least concluded state, a poetical work 
which is the longest, the most thoughtful and comprehensive of 
my compositions, I wish to do honour to myself by the record of 
many years’ intimacy with a man of learning, of talent, of steadi- 
ness, and ofhonour. It is not for minds like ours to give or to 
receive flattery ; yet the praises of sincerity have ever been per- 
mitted to the voice of friendship ; and it is not for you, nor even 
for others, but to relieve a heart which has not elsewhere, or late- 
ly, been so much accustomed to the encounter of good-will as to 
withstand the shock firmly, that I thus attempt to commemorate 
your good qualities, or rather the advantages which I have derived 
from their exertion. Even the recurrence of the date of this let- 
ter, the anniversary of the most unfortunate day of my past exist- 
ence, but which cannot poison my future while 1 retain the re- 
source of your friendship, and of my vwn faculties, will henceforth 
have a more agreeable recollection for both, masmuch as it will 


138 DEDICATION. 


remind us of this my attempt to thank you for an indefatigable 
regard, such as few men have experienced, and no one could 
experience, without thinking better of his species and of himself. 

It has been our fortune to traverse together, at various periods, 
the countries of chivalry, history, and fable — Spain, Greece, 
Asia Miner, and Italy ; and what Athens and Constantinople 
were tous a few years ago, Venice and Rome have been more 
recently. The poem also, or the pilgrim, or both, have accom- 
panied me from first to last ; and perhaps it may be a pardonable 
vanity which induces me to reflect with complacency on a com- 
position which in some degree connects me with the spot where 
it was produced, and the objects it would fain describe ; and how- 
ever unworthy it may be deemed of those magical and memorable 

abodes, however short it may fall of our distant conceptions and 
immediate impressions, yet as a mark of respect for what is vener- 
able, and of feeling for what is glorious, it has been to mea 
source of pleasure in the production, and I part with it witha 
kind of regret, which I hardly suspected that events could have 
left me for imaginary objects. 

With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there will be found 
less of the pilgrim than in any of the preceding, and that little 
‘slightly, if at all> Separated from the author speaking in his own 
person. The fact is, that I had become weary of drawing a line 
which every one seemed determined not io perceive : like the 
Chinese in Goldsmith’s “ Citizen of the World,” whom nobody 
would believe to be a Chinese, it was in vain that I asserted, and 
imagined that 1 had drawn, a distinction between the author and 
the pilgrim ; and the very anxiety to preserve this difference, and 
disappointment at finding it unavailing, so far crushed my efforts 
in the composition, that [ determined to abandon it altogether — 
and have done so. ‘The opinions which have been, or may be, 
formed on that subject, are now a matter of indifference ; the 
work is to depend on itself, and not on the writer ; and the author, 
who has no resources in his own mind beyond the reputation, 
transient or permanent, which is to arise from his literary efforts, 
deserves the fate of authors. 

In the course of the following canto it was my intention, either 
in the text or in the notes, to have touched upon the present state 
of Italian literature, and pertians of manners. But the text, within 
~the limits T proposed, I soon found hardly sufficient for the laby- 
rinth of external objects, and the consequent reflections ; and for 
the whole of the notes, excepting a few of the shortest, [ am in- 
debted to yourself, and these were necessarily limited to the 
elucidation of the text. 

it is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to dissert upon 
the literature and manners of a nation so dissimilar ; and requires 


DEDICATION. 139 


an attentio. md impartiality which would induce us — though 
perkeps no inuttentive observers, nor ignorant of the language or 
customs of the people amongst whom we have recently abode — 
to distiust, or at least defer our judgment, and more narrowly 
examine our information. The state of literary, as well as_poli- 
tical party, appears to run, or to have run, so high, that for a 
stranger to steer impartially between them is next to impossible. 
It may be enough, then, at least for my purpose, to quote from 
their own beautiful language — “ Mi pare che in un paese tutto 
poetico, che vanta la lingua la piu nobile ed msieme la pit: dolce, 
tutte tutte Ja vie diverse si possono tentare, e che sinche la patria 
di Alfieri e di Monti non ha perduto I’ antico valore, in tutte essa 
dovrebbe essere la prima.” Italy has great names still — Ca- 
nova, Monti, Ugo Foscolo, Pindemonte, Visconti, Morelli 
Cicognara, Albrizzi, Mezzophanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and 
Vacca, will secure to the present generation an honourable place 
in most of the departments of Art, Science, and Belles Lettres ; 
and in some the very highest ; — Europe — the World — has but 
one Canova. 

It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that “« La pianta uomo 
nasce pitt robusta in Italia che in qualunque altra terra—e che 
gli stessi atroci delitti che vi si commettono ne sono una prova.” 
Without subscribing to the latter part of his proposition, a danger- 
ous doctrine, the truth of which may be disputed on better 
grounds, namely, that the Italians are in no respect more fero- 
cious than their neighbours, that man must be wilfully blind, or 
ignorantly heedless, who is not struck with the extraordinary 
capacity of this people, or, if such a word be admissible, their 
capabrlities, the facility of their acquisitions, the rapidity of their 
conceptions, the fire of their genius, their sense of beauty, and, 
amidst all the disadvantages of repeated revolutions, the desola- 
tion of battles, and the despair of ages, their still unquenched 
* longing after immortality,” — the immortality of independence. 
And when we ourselves, in riding round the walls of Rome, heard 
the simple lament of the labourers’ chorus, “ Roma! Roma! 
Roma! Roma non é pitt come era prima,” it was difficult not to 
contrast this melancholy dirge with the bacchanal roar of the songs 
of exultation still yelled from the London taverns, over the carnage 
of Mont St. Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, of Italy, of France, 
and of the world, by men whose conduct you yourself have ex- 
posed in a work worthy of the better days of our history. For 
me,— 


‘ Non movero mai corda 
Ove la turba di sue ciance assorda.” 


What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, it were 
useless for Englishmen to enquire, till it becomes ascertained 


140 DEDICATION. 


that England has acquired something more than a permanent 
army and a suspended Habeas Corpus ; it is enough for them to 
look at home. For what they have done abroad, and especially 
in the South, “ Verily they will have their reward,” and at no 
very distant period. 

Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and agreeable retuin 
to that country whose real welfare can be dearer to none than to 
yourself, I dedicate to you this poem in its completed state ; and 
repeat once more how truly I am ever, 

Your obliged 


And affectionate friend, 
BYRON. 


CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE. 


---- 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 


I. - 
I stoop in Venice, on the Bridge of sighs ; (ἢ) 
A palace and a prison on each hand: | 
I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand : 
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
Around me, and a dying glory smiles 
O’er the far times, when many a subject land 
Look’d to the winged Lion’s marble piles, _ 
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles! 


II. 
She looks a sea-Cybele, fresh from ocean, (ἢ) 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
, At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
. A ruler of the waters and their powers : 
And such she was ; — her daughters had their dowers 
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 
Pour’d in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. 
In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
Monarchs partook, and deem’d their dignity increased. 


Il. 

In Venice 'Tasso’s echoes are no more, (Ἶ ~ 
And silent rows the songless gondolier ; | 
Her palaces are cr umbling tothe shore, 2277 ΠΣ, 
And music meets not always now the ear : ᾿ 
Those days are gone — but beauty still is here. 
States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not die : 
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 
The pleasant place of all festivity, 

The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy! 


SOS He EOE EG 


J P 
pa Piha gees 


(1) See “ Historical Notes” at the end of this Canto, No. I. 


(2) An old writer, describing the appearance of Venice, has made use of the above 
mage, which would not be poetical were it not true. 

‘Quo fit ut qui superne urbem contempletur, turritam telluris imaginem medio Oce- 
ano fizuratam se putet inspicere.”* 

(3) See “ Historical Notes” at the end of this Canto, No. IT. 


* Marci Antonii 5545} de V enetee Urbis situ parratio, edit. Taurin, 1527, lib. ifol.202. 


142 


CHILDE HAROLD’S 


IV. 


But unto us she hath a spell beyond 

Her name in story, and her long array 

Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 
Above the dogeless city’s vanish’d sway ; 

Ours is a trophy which will not decay 

With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor, 

And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away — 
The keystones of the arch! though all were o’er 


‘For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 


4 


V. 


The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
Essentially immortal, they create 


And multiply in us a brighter ray 


, And more beloved existence ; that which fate 


Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 

Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied 

First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; 
Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, 


And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 


Vi. 


Such is the refuge of our youth and age, 

The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy ; 

And this worn feeling peoples many a page, 

And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye? 
Yet there are things whose strong reality 
Outshines our fairy-land ; in shape and hues 

More beautiful than our fantastic sky, 

And the strange constellations which the Muse 


O’er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse : 


Vil. 


ff saw or dream’d of such, — but let them go — 


They came like truth, and disappear’d like dreams 


ὶ And whatsoe’er they were — are now but so: 


T could replace them if I would; still teems; 
My mind with many a form which aptly seems 
Such as I sought for, and at moments found ; 


Let these too go — for waking Reason deems 
Such_over-reening phantasies unsound, 


And other voices speak, and other sighs surround. 
ν᾿ 


CATNO τ 


©. £30 IV. PILGRIMAGE. 143 


VIII. 


Tye taught me other tongues — and in strange eyes 


Have made me not a stranger; to the mind 

Which is itself, no changes bring surprise ; 

Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 

A country with — ay, or without mankind ; 

Yet was I born where men are proud to be, 

Not without cause ; and should I leave behind / 

The inviolate islands of the sage and free, 2 
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, / 

1X. 

Perhaps I loved it well; and should I lay 

My ashes in a soil which is not mine, 

_ My spirit shall resume it — if we may 
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
My-hopes of being remember’d in my lind 
With my land’s language : if too fond and far 
These aspirations in their scope incline, — 

If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, 
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar 


be 


y name from out the temple where the dead 
μὰ honour’d by the nations — let it be — 
nd light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
And be the Spartan’s epitaph on me —- 
«ς Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.” (Ὁ) 
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need ; 
The thors which I have reap’d are of the tree 
MI planted, — they have torn me, — and I bleed: 
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. 


XI. 


The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; 

And, annual marriage, now no more renew’d, 

The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, 

Neglected garment of her widowhood ! 

St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood, (ἢ 

Stand, but in mockery of his wither’d power, 

Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, 

And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
When Venice was a queen with an unequall’d dower. 


(1) The answer of the mother of Brasidas to the strangers who praised the memory 
of her son. 


(2) See * Historical Notes,’ No. IIE. | 


144 


CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO It, 


he Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns —(2) 
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt ; 
Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 

Clank over sceptred cities ; nations melt 

From power’s high pinnacle, when they have felt 

The sunshine for a while, and downward go 

Like lauwine loosen’d from the mountain’s belt ; 


Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo! (?) - 6 «s:« ΝΗΡ 


Th’ octogenarian chief, Byzantium’s conquering foe. 


XIII. 


Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; 

But is not Doria’s menace come to pass ? (ἢ) 
Are they not bridled ? — Venice, lost and won, 
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, 
Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose! ° 
Better be whelm’d beneath the waves, and shun, 
Even in destruction’s depth, her foreign foes, 


From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 


XIV. 


In youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre, — 

Her very by-word sprung from victory, 

The ““ Planter of the Lion,” (*) which through fire ! 
And blood she bore o’er subject earth and sea ; 

Though making many slaves, herself still free, 

And Europe’s bulwark ’gainst the Ottomite ; 

Witness Troy’s rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye 

Immortal waves that saw Lepanto’s fight ! 


For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. 


XV. 
Statues of glass — all shiver’d — the long file 
Of her dead Doges are declined to dust ; 
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile 
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust ; 
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, 
Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, (Ὁ) 


Have flung a desolate cloud o’er Venice’ lovely walls. 


(1, 2, 3,5) See “ Historical Notes.” Nos. lV. V. VI. VII. 
(4) Plant the Lion—that is, the Lion of St. Mark, the standard of the republic, 
which is the origin of the word Pantaloon—Piantaleone, Pantaleon, Pantaloon. 


ota ΡΣ PILGRIMAGE. 145 


XVI. 

When Athens’ armies fell at Syracuse, 

And fetter’d thousands bore the yoke of war, 

Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, (’) 

Her voice their only ramsom from afar : 

See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 

Of the o’ermaster’d victor stops, the reins 

Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar 

Starts from its belt —he rends his captive’s chains, 
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. ὃ 


XVII. 

Thus, Venice, if no strongereclaim were thine, 
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
Thy choral memory of the Bard divine, 
Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 
Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot 
Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 
Albion! to thee : the Ocean queen should not 
Abandon Ocean’s children ; in the fall 

Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall 


- 


ἣν. 


XVIII. 
I loved her from my boyhood — she to me 
Was as a fairy city of the heart, 
Rising like water-columns from the sea, 
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart ; 
And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare’s art, (ἢ) 
Had stamp’d her image in me, and even so, 
Although I found her thus, we did not part, 
Perchance even dearer in her day of woe, 
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 


XIX. 
I can repeople with the past —-and of 
The present there is still for eye and thought, 
And meditation chasten’d down, enough ; 
And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought ; 
And of the happiest moments which were wrought 
Within the web of my existence, some 
From thee, fair Venice! have their colours caught : , 
There are some feelings Time cannot benumb, 
Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb. 


(1) The story is told in Plutarch’s life of Nicias. 
(2) Venice Preserved ; Mysteries of Udolpho; the Ghost-Seer, or Armenian: ne 
Merchant of Venice; Othello. 


VOL. IIl.—-L 


146 CHILDE HAROLD’S ; CANTO IV. 


XX. 
But from their nature will the tannen grow (’) 
Loftiest on loftiest and Jeast shelter’d rocks, 
Rooted in barrenness, where nought below 
Of soil supports them ’gainst the Alpine shocks 
Of eddying storms ; yet springs the trunk, and mocks 
The howling tempest, till its height and frame 
Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks 
Of bleak, gray granite into life it came, 


nd grew a giant tree ; — the mind may grow the same, 


XXi. 


(austence may-he-homeeand the deep root 
Of life and sufferance make its firm abode 


In bare and desolated bosoms: mute 

The camel labours with the heaviest load, 

And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestow’d 

In vain should such example be ; if they, 

Things of ignoble or of savage mood, 

Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 
May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. 


XXII. 
' £ All suffering doth destroy, or 1s destroy’d, 
/ | Even by the sufferer; and, in each event, 
Ends : — Some, with hope replenish’d and rebuoy’d, 
Return to whence they came — with like intent, 
And weave their web again; some, bow’d and bent, 
: Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time, 
} And perish with the reed on which they leant ; 
. £Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, 
ote as their souls were form’d to sink or climb: 


XXIII. 

But ever and anon of griefs subdued 
'/ There comes a token like a scorpion’s sting, 

Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; 

And slight withal may be the things which bring 

Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 

Aside for ever: it may be a sound — 

A tone of music — summer’s eve — or spring — 

A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shali wound, 
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound ; 


(1) Tannen is the plural of tanne, a species of fir peculiar to the Alps, which only 
thrives in very rocky parts, where scarcely soil sufficient for its nourishment can be 
found. On these spots it grows to a greater height than any other mountain tree. 


CANTO IV. PILGRIMAGE. 14 


XXIV. 


And how and why we know not, nor can trace 
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, 
But feel the shock renew’d, nor can efface 
The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, 
Which out of things familiar, undesign’d, 
When least we deem offguchy calls u iewo, diy 
The spectres whom oe Meee ἷ Lex 
The cold — the changed — perthance the dead — ane 
The mourn’d, the loved, the lost — too many ! — yet how few ! 


» ᾿ ᾿ a ἘΠΕῚ .- 
τα οι cian ον 5 ad sanoe teas a , ; gee 


XXV. XK 


But my soul wanders ; I demand it back 
To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track 
Fall’n states and buried greatness, o’er a land 
Which was the mightiest in its old command, 
And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
The master-mould of Nature’s heavenly hand, 
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, 
The beautiful, the brave — the lords of earth and sea, 


XXVI. 


The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome! 
And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 
Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree ; 
Even in thy desert, what is like to thee ? 
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
More rich than other climes’ fertility ; 
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 
With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced. 


XXVII. 


The moon is up, and yet it is not night — 

Sunset divides the sky with her —a sea 

Of glory streams along the Alpine height 

Of blue Friuli’s mountains ; Heaven is free 

From clouds, but of all colours seems to be 

Melted to one vast Iris of the West, 

Where the Day joins the past Eternity ; 

While, on the other hand, meek Dian’s crest 
Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest? 


148 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO TV, 


XXVIII. 
A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o’er half the lovely heaven ; but still (Ὁ 
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
Roll’d o’er the peak of the far Rheetian hill, 
As Day and Night contending were, until 
_ Nature reclaim’d her order : — gently flows 
. The déep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instill 
The odorous purple of a new-born rose, 
Which streams upon her stream, and glass’d within it glows, 
- - END: 
Fill'd with the fa€e of heaven, which, from afar ; 
Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues, 
From the rich sunset to the rising star, 
Their magical variety diffuse : 
And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
Its mantle o’er the mountains ; parting day 
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
With a new colour as it gasps away, 
The last still loveliest, till —’tis gone—— and all is gray. 
ΧΧΧ. 
There is a tomb in Arqua ;—rear’d in air, 
Pillar’d in their sarcophagus, repose 
The bones of Laura’s dover f/here repair 
Many familiar with his well-sung woes, — 
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : 
Watering the tree which bears his lady’s name (*) 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 


XXXI. 
They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died ; (Ὁ 
The mountain-village where his latter days 
Went down the vale of years; and ’tis their pride ~~ 
An honest pride — and let it be their praise, 
To offer to the passing stranger’s gaze 
His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain 
And venerably simple, such as raise 
A feeling more accordant with his strain 
Than if a pyramid form’d his monumental fane. 


(1) The above description may seem fantastical or exaggerated to those wno 
have never seen an Oriental or an Italian sky, yet it is but a literal and hardly suffi- 
cient delineation of an August evening (the eighteenth) as contemplated in one of 
wnany rides along the banks of the Brenta near La Mira. 


(2,3) See “ Historical Notes,” Nos. VIII. and IX. 


CANTO IV. PILGRIMAGE. 119 


XXXII. 
And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
Is one of that complexion which seems made 
For those who their mortality have felt, 
And sought a refuge from their hopes decay’d 
In the deep umbrage of a green hill’s shade, 
Which shows a distant prospect far away 
Of busy cities, now in vain display’d, 
For they can lure no further ; and the ray 
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday, 


XXXII. 
Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, 
And shining in the brawling brook, where-by, 
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours 
With a calm languor, which, though to the eye 
Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. 
If from society we learn to live, 
Tis solitude should teach us how to die ; 
It hath no flatterers ; vanity can give 
No hollow aid ; alone — man with his God must strive : 


XXXIV. 
Or, it may be, with demons, who impair (’) 
The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey 
In melancholy bosoms, such as were 
Of moody texture from their earliest day, 
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, 
Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
Which is not of the pangs that pass away ; 
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 
The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. 


XXX. 
Ferrara! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, 
Whose symmetry was not for solitude, 
There seems as ’twere a curse upon the seats 
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
Of Este, which for many an age made good 
Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore ἡ 
Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood 
Of petty power impell’d, of those who wore 
The wreath which Dante’s brow alone had worn before. 


(1) The struggle is to the full as likely to be with demons as with our better 
thoughts. Satan chose the wilderness for the temptation of our Saviour. And our 
unsullied John Locke preferred the presence of a child to complete solitude. 


150 


CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO IV, 


XXXVI. 


And Tasso is their glory and their shame. 
Hark to his stram! and then survey his cell! 
And see how dearly earn’d Torquato’s fame, 
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell : 

The miserable despot could not quell 

The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend 
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 

Where he had plunged it. Glory without end 


— the clouds away — and on that name attend 


XXXVII. ᾿ 
The tears and praises of all time ; while thine 
Would rot m its oblivion —im the sink 
Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line 
Is shaken into nothing ; but the link 
Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think 
Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scomm— _ 
Alfonso! how thy ducal pageants shrink 
From thee ! if in another station born, 


Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad’st to mourn : 


XXXVIIL 
Thou! form’d to eat, and be despised, and die, 
Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou 
Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sty : 
He! with a glory round his furrow’d brow, 
Which emanated then, and dazzles now, 
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, 
And Boileau, vhose rash envy could allow (*) 
No stram which shamed his country’s creaking lyre, 


That whetstone of the teeth — monotony in wire ! τ 


ΧΧΧΙΧ, 


twas his 


Peace to Torquato’ 5 eb shade ἔξ 
: irk Where Wrong 

Aim’d with her pacha arrows, but to miss. 

Oh, victor unsurpass’d in modern song ! 

Each year brings forth its millions ; but how long 

The tide of generations shall roll on, 

And not the whele combined and countless throng 

Compose a mind like thine ? though all m one 


Condensed their scatter’d rays, they would not form ἃ sun. 


μον 


(1) See “" Historieal Notes,” at the end of this canto, No. X. weg γι 


CANTO Iv. PILGRIMAGE. 151 


Xs 
Great as thou art, yet parallel’d by those, 
Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine, 
The Bards of Hell and Chivalry ; first rose 
The Tuscan father’s comedy divine ; 
Then not unequal to the Florentine, 
€ sou the minstrel -who call’d forth 
A new creation with his magic line, 


And, like the Ariosto of the North, 
Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth. 


XLI. 
The lightning rent from Ariosto’s bust (ἢ) 
The iron crown of Jaurel’s mimic’d leaves ; 
Nor was the ominous element unjust, 
For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves (*) 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, 
And the false semblance but disgraced his brow ; 
Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves, 
Know, that the lightning sanctifies below (°*) 
Whate’er it strikes ; — yon head is doubly sacred now. 


XLII. 

Italia! oh Italia! thou who hast (*) 
The fatal gift of beauty, which became li” 
A funeral dower of present woes and past, A LY 
On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough’d by shame, oO 


And annals graved in characters of flame. » oh 


Oh, God! that thou wert in thy nakedness 2 pj} 


Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim a 


Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press 
To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress ; 


XLII. 
Then might’st thou more appal ; or, less desired, 
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
For thy destructive charms ; then, still untired, 
Would not be seen the armed torrents pour’d 
Down the deep Alps; nor would the hostile horde 
Of many-nation’d spoilers from the Po 
Quaff blood and water ; nor the stranger’s sword 
Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 

Victor or vanquish’d, thou the slave of friend or foe. 


(1, 2,8) See * Historical Notes,” atthe end of this canto, Nos. XI. XII. XIII. 


(4) The two stanzas, XLIT. XUIII., are, with the exception of a line or twc. ἃ 
of the famous sonnet of Filicaja: 4 
μων “ * Ttalia, Italia, O tu em feo la sorte !” 


152 se oe CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO IV. 


fecal 


4 vr 5. 
rs / ΩΝ 
Pag 


Pd XLIV. 


- Wandering in youth, I traced the path of hin, (’) 
The Roman friend of Rome’s least mortal-mind 
The friend of Tully: as my bark did skim 
The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, 
Came Megara before me, and behind 
E.gina lay, Pirzeus on the right, 

And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined 
Along the prow, and saw all these unite 
In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; 


XLV. 


For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear’d 
- Barbaric dwellings on their shatter’d site, 
Which only make more mourn’d and more endear’d 
The few last rays of their far-scatter’d light, 
And the crush’d relics of their vanish’d might. 
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, 
These sepulchres of cities, which excite, 
Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. 


“» 


XLVI. 


That page is now before me, and on mine 
His country’s ruin added to the mass 
Of perish’d states he mourn’d in their decline, 
And I in desolation : all that was 
Of then destruction 7s; and now, alas! 
Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, 
In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
The skeleton of her Titanic form, (’) 
Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. 


(1) The celebrated letter of Servius Sulpicius to Cicero on the death of his daugh- 
ter, describes as it then was, and now is, a path which I often traced in Greece, botli 
by sea and land, in different journeys and voyages. 

“ On my return from Asia, as I was sailing from AX gina towards Megara, I began 
to contemplate the prospect of the countries around me: A%gina was behind, Megara 
before me; Pirzus on the right, Corinth on the left; all which towns, once famous 
and flourshing, now lie overturned and buried in their ruins. Upon this sight, 1 could 
not but think presently within myseif, Alas! how do we poor mortals fret and vex 
ourselves if any of our friends happen to die or be killed, whose life is yet so short, 
when the carcasses of so many noble cities lie here exposed before me in one view.” — 
Dr. Middleton—History of the Life of M. Tullius Cicero, sect. vil. p. 371. vol. 11. 

(2) It iS feee eon who, looking from the Capitoline hill upon ruined Rome, breaks 
forth into ation, “ Ut nunc omni decore nudata, prostrata jacet, mstar 
zgigantei cadaveris corrupti atque undique exesi.—De fortune varietate urbis Rome, 
et de ruinis ejusdem descriptio, ap. Sallengre, Thesaur. tom. i. p. 501. 


ΕΣ PILGRIMAGE. }} 153 


XLVIl. fo one 
Yet, Italy! through every other land 
Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side ; 
Mother of Arts! as once of arms ; thy hand ar 
Was then our guardian, and 1s still our guide ; woh) 
arent of our Religion! whom the wide 
Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven! 
Europe, repentant of her parricide, 
Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, 
Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven, 


XLVIL. 
But Arno wins us to the fair white walls, “2 
Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps ἶ 
A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps 
Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps 
To laughing life, with her redundant horn. 
Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps 
Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, 

And buried Learning rose, redeem’d to a new morn. 


XLIX. 


There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills (*) 3 
The air around with beauty ; we inhale | 
The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 
Part of ils immortality ; the veil 
Of heaven is half undrawn ; within the pale 
We stand, and in that form and face behold 
What mind can make, when Nature’s self would fail ; 
And to the fond idolaters of old 

Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould : 


Ls 
We gaze and turn away, and know not where, 
Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart 
Reels with its fulness ; there — for ever there — 
Chain’d to the chariot of triumphal Art, 
We stand as captives, and would not depart. 
Away ! — there need no words, nor terms precise, 
The paltry jargon of the marble mart, 
Where Pedantry gulls Folly — we have eyes : 
Blood — pulse —and breast, confirm the Dardan Shepherd’s 
prize. 


(1) See ‘“‘ Historical Notes,” at the end of this canto, No. XTV. 


‘a 


Ah 
oa § 


154 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO "Ὁ. | 


LI. 
Appear’dst thou not to Paris in this guise ? 
Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or, ._ _*% 
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies My FS 
Before thee thy own vanquish’d Lord of War? ἡ, 
And gazing in thy face as toward a star, 
Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, 
Feeding on thy sweet cheek ! (*) while thy lips are 
With lava kisses melting while they burn, 

Shower’d on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an urn : 


fie 

Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, 

Their ful! divinity inadequate 

That feeling to express, or to improve, 

The gods become as mortals, and man’s fate 

Has moments like their brightest ; but the weight 

Of earth recoils upon us ; — let it go! 

We can recall such visions, and create, 

From what has been, or might be, things which grow 
Into thy statue’s form, and look like gods below. 


Tid. 
I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands, 
The artist and his ape, to teach and tell 
How well his connoisseurship understands 
The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell : 
Let these describe the undescribable : 
I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream 
Wherein that image shall for ever dwell ; 
The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream 
That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. 


LIv. 
In Santa Croce’s holy precincts lie (5) 
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is 
Even in itself an immortality, , 
Though there were nothing save the past, and this 
The particle of those sublimities 
Which have relapsed to chaos : — here repose 
Angelo’s, Alfieri’s bones, and his, (*) 
The starry Galileo, with his woes ; 
Here Machiavelli's earth return’d to whence it rose. (*) 
(1) ᾿Οφθαλμοὺς ξστιᾶν 
“© Atque oculos pascat uterque suos.” — Ovid. Amor lib. ii. 
eit 4) See “ Historical Notes,” at the end of this canto, Nos. XV. XVI 


CANTO I¥ PILGRIMAGE. 155 


LV. 


These are four minds, which, like the elements, 
Might furnish forth creation : — Italy! 
Time, which hath wrong’d thee with ten thousand rents 
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, 
And hath denied, to every other sky, 
Spirits which soar from ruin : — thy decay 
Is still impregnate with divinity, 
Which gilds it with revivifying ray ; 
Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 


LVI. 

But where repose the all Etruscan three — 
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, 
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he 
Of the Hundred ‘Tales of love — where did they lay 
Their bones, distinguish’d from our common clay 
In death as life? Are they resolved to dust, 
And have their country’s marbles nought to say 7 
Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust ? 

Did they not to her breast their filial earth intrust? 


LVII. 
Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar, (7) 
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ; (. 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore 
Their children’s children would in vain adore 
With the remorse of ages ; and the crown (*) 
Which Petrarch’s laureate brow supremely wore, 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, 
His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled — not thine own. 


LVIII. 

Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath’d (ἢ) 

His dust, — and lies it not her Great among, 

With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed 

O’er him who form’d the Tuscan’s siren tongue ? 

That music in itself, whose sounds are song, 

The poetry of speech? No; — even his tomb 

Uptorn, must bear the hyzena bigot’s wrong, 

No more amidst the meaner dead find room, 
Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom ! 


(1. 2,3, 4) See “ Historical Notes,’ at the end of this canto, Nos. XVIII. 
XIX. XX. and X XT, 


156 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO LY, 


LIX. 


And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust ; 
Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 
The Cesar’s pageant, shorn of Brutus’ bust, 
Did but of Rome’s best Son remind her more ; 
Happier Ravenna! on thy hoary shore, 
Fortress of falling empire! honour’d sleeps 
The immortal exile ; — Arqua, too, her store 
Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, 
While Florence vainly begs her banish’d dead and weeps. 


Lx. 


What is her pyramid of precious stones? (*) 
Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
Of merchant-dukes ? the momentary dews 
Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse 
Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, 
Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, 
Are gently prest with far more reverent tread 
Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head. 


LXI. 


There be more things to greet the heart and eyes 
In Arno’s dome of Art’s most princely shrine, 
Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies ; 
There be more marvels yet — but not for mine ; 
For I have been accustom’d to entwine 
My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields, 
Than Art in galleries: though a work divine 
Calls for my spirit’s homage, yet it yields 

Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields 


LXII. 
Is of another temper, and I roam 
By Thrasimene’s lake, in the defiles 
Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home ; 
For there the Carthaginian’s warlike wiles 
Come back before me, as his skill beguiles 
The host between the mountains and the shore, 
Where Courage falls in her despairing files, 
And torrents, swoln to rivers with their gore, 
Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter’d o’er. 


(1) See “ Historical Notes,” at the end of this Canto, No. XXII. 


CANTO IV. PILGRIMAGE. 157 


LXIII. 
Like to a forest fell’d by mountain winds ; 
And such the storm of battle on this day, 
And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds 
To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, 
An earthquake reel’d unheededly away ! (*) 
‘oue felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, 
And yawning forth a grave for those who lay 
Upon their bucklers for a winding sheet ; 
Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet! 


LXIV. 
The Earth to them was as a rolling bark 
Which bore them to Eternity ; they saw 
The Ocean round, but had no time to mark 
The motions of their vessel; Nature’s law, 
In them suspended, reck’d not of the awe 
Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds 
Plunge in the clouds for refuge and withdraw 
From their down-toppling nests ; and bellowing herds 
Stumble o’er heaving plains, and man’s dread hath no words. 


LXV. 
Far other scene is Thrasimene now ; 
Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough ; 
Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 
Lay where their roots are ; but a brook hath ta’en — 
A little rill of scanty stream and bed — 
A name of blood from that day’s sanguine rain ; 
And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead 
Made the earth wet, and turn’d the unwilling waters red. 


LXVI. 

But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave (ἢ) 

Of the most living crystal that was e’er 

The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 

Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear 

Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer 

Grazes ; the purest god of gentle waters ! 

And most serene of aspect, and most clear ; 

Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters — 
A murror and a bath for Beauty’s youngest daughters ! 


(1) See “ Historical Notes,” at the end of this Canto, No, X XIIT. 


(2) No book of travels has omitted to expatiate on the temple of the Clitumnus, 
vetween Foligno and Spoleto; and no site, or scenery, even in Italy, is more worthy 
a description. For an account of the dilapidation of this temple, the reader is refer- 
red to “ Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold,” p. 35. 


ὧν 


CHILDE HAROLD’S 


LXVII. 


And on thy happy shore a Temple still, 


Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, 
Upon a mild declivity of hill, 

Its memory of thee ; beneath it sweeps 

Thy current’s calmness ; oft from out it leaps 
The finny darter with the glittering scales, 
Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; 
While, chance, some scatter’d water-lily sails 


CANTO Iv. 


Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling tales. 


LXVIII. 


Pass not unblest the Genius of the place! 

If through the air a zephyr more serene 

Win to the brow, ’tis his ; and if ye trace 
Along his margin a more eloquent green, 

If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
Of weary life a moment lave it clean 

With Nature’s baptism, — ’tis to him ye must 


Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. 


LXIX. 


The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height 
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; 

The fall of waters! rapid as the light 

The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; 
The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss, 
And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat 

Of their great agony, wrung out from this 

Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 


That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror se‘, 


LXX. 


And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again 
Returns m an unceasing shower, which round, 
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 

Ts an eternal April to the ground, 

Making it all one emerald : — how profound 
The gulf! and how the giant element 

From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, 


Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and ren, 


With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful ven, 


σι 
Py 


CANTO ΤΥ, PILGRIMAGE. 1: 


LXXI. 


To the broad column which rolls on, and shows 
More like the fountain of an infant sea 
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes 
Of a new world, than only thus to be 
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, 
With many windings, through the vaie : — Look back ! 
Lo! where it comes like an eternity, 
As if to sweep down all things in its track, 
Charming the eye with dread, — a matchless cataract, (Ὁ) 


LXXIl. 


Horribly beautiful! but on the verge, 

From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, 

An his sits, amidst the infernal surge, (ἢ 

Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 

Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 

By the distracted waters, bears serene 

Its brilhant hues with all their beams unshorn : 
‘ Resembling, ’mid the torture of the scene, 
Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. 


(1) Isaw the “ Cascata del marmore” of Terni twice, at different periods ; 
once from the summit of the precipice, and again from the valley below. The lower 
view is far to be preferred, if the traveller has time for one only ; but in any point of 
view, either from above or below, it is worth all the cascades and torrents of Swit- 
zerland put together : the Staubach, Reichenbach, Pisse Vache, fall of Arpenaz, &c. 
are rills in comparative appearance. Of the fall of Schaff hausen I cannot speak, not 


yet having seen it. 


(2) Of the time, place, and qualities of this kind of iris the reader may have seen 
a short account in a note to Manfred. The fall looks so much like ‘ the hell of 
waters” that Addison thought the descent alluded to by the gulf in which Alecto 
plunged into the infernal regions. It is smgular enough that two of the finest cas- 
cades in Europe should be artificial—this of the Velino, and the one at Tivoli. 
The traveller is strongly recommended to trace the Velino, at least as high as the 
little lake called Pie’ di Lup. The Reatine territory was the Italian Temple,* 
and the ancient naturalist, among other beautiful varieties, remarked the daiiy rain- 
bows of the lake Velinus.{ A scholar of great name has devoted a treatise to this 


district alone.{ 


* ¢ Reatini me ad sua Tempe duxerunt.” Cicer. epist. ad Attic. xv. lib. iv. 

t “Τὰ eodem lacu nullo non die apparere arcus,”’ Plin, Hist. Nat. lib. i. cap- 
Ixii. 
1 Ald. Manut. de Reatina Urbe Agroque, ap. Sallengre, Thesaur. tom. i, p, 773. 


100 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO IV. 


LXXITl. 


Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
The infant Alps, which — had I not before 
Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine 
Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar 
‘The thundering lauwine — might be worshipp’d more ; (ἢ) 
But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear 
Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar 
Glaciers of bleak Mount-Blanc both far and near, 
And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, 


LXXIV. 

Th’ Acroceraunian mountains of old name : 

And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 

Like spirits of the spot, as ’twere for fame. 

For still they soar’d unutterably high : 

Τνϑ look’d on Ida with a Trojan’s eye ; 

Athos, Olympus, AXtna, Atlas, made 

These hills seem things of lesser dignity, 

All, save the lone Soracte’s heights display’d 
Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman’s aid 


EXXY,. 

For our remembrance, and from out the plain 

Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, 

And on the curl hangs pausing: not in vain 

May he, who will, his recollections rake 

And quote in classic raptures, and awake 

The hills with Latian echoes ; I abhorr’d 

Too much, to conquer for the poet’s sake, 

The drill’d dull lesson, forced down word by word (*) 
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 


(1) In the greater part of Switzerland the avalanches are known by the name of 
lauwine. ᾿ ᾿ 


(2) These stanzas may probably remind the reader of Ensign Northerton’s re- 
marks ; ‘¢ D—n Homo,” &c. but the reasons for our dislike are not exactly the same. 
I wish to express that we become tired of the task before we can comprehend the 
beautv: that we learn by rote before we can get by heart; that the freshness 15 
worn away, and the future pleasure and advantage deadened and destroyed, by the 
didactic anticipation, at an age when we can neither feel nor understand the power of 
campositions which it requires an acquaintance with life, as well as Latin and Greek, 
to relish, or to reason upon. For the same reason we never can be aware of the 
fulness of some of the finest passages of Shakspeare, (“9 To be, or not to be,” for 
instance,) from the habit of having them hammered into us at eight years old, as an 
exercise, not of mind, but of memory: so that when we are old enough to enjoy them, 
the taste is gone, and the appetite palled. In some parts of the Continent, young 
persons are taught from more common authors, and do not read the best classics till 
their maturity. I certainly do not speak on this point from any pique or aversion 
towards the place of my education, I was not a slow, though an idle boy; and I 


CANTO ιν. PILGRIMAGE. 161 


LXXVI. 


Aught that recalls the daily drug which turn’d 
My sickening memory ; and, though Time hath taught 
My mind to meditate what then it learn’d, 
Yet such the fix’d inveteracy wrought 
By the impatience of my early thought, 
That, with the freshness wearing out before 
My mind could relish what it might have sought, 
If free to choose, I cannot now restore 
Its health ; but what it then detested, still abhor. 


LXXVII. 


Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, 

Not for thy faults, but mine ; it is a curse 

To understand, not fee! thy lyric flow, 

To comprehend, but never love thy verse, 

Although no deeper Moralist rehearse 

Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art, 

Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce, 

Awakening without wounding the touch’d heart, 
Yet fare thee well — upon Soracte’s ridge we part. 


LXXVIII. 


Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul! 
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
Lone mother of dead empires! and control 
In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
What are our woes and sufferance ἡ Come and see 
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 
O’er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye! 
Whose agonies are evils of a day — 

A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 


delieve no one could, or can be, more attached to Harrow than I have always been, 
and with reason ;—a part of the time passed there was the happiest of my hfe; and 
my preceptor (the Rev. Dr. Joseph Drury) was the best and worthiest friend I ever 
possessed, whose warnings I have remembered but too well, though too late, when 
{ have erred,—and whose counsels [ have but followed when I have done well or 
wisely. If ever this imperfect record of my feelings towards him sbould reach his 
eyes, let it remind him of one who never thinks of him but with gratitude and vene- 
ration—of one who would more gladly boast of havmg been his pupil, if, by more 
closely following his injunctions he could reflect any honour upon his instructor. 


VOL. IlIl.—™M 


162 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO IT 


ff 
LXXIX. 


ai The Niobe of nations! there she stands 
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe, 
An empty urn within her wither’d hands, 
Whose holy. dust was scatter’d long ago ; 
The Scipios’ tomb contains no ashes now; (ἢ) 
The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow, 
Old Tiber! through a marble wildernesss ? 
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. 


ὅς Ὁ φὶ 
The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, 
Have dealt upon the seven-hill’d city’s pride ; 
She saw her glories star by star expire, 
And up the steep barbarian monarch’s ride, 
Where the car climb’d the capitol ; far and wide © 
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site : — 
Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void, 
O’er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, 

And say, “ here was, or is,” where all is doubly night ? 


LEXKI: 
' The double night of ages, and of her, 
Night’s daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap 
Allround us ; we but feel our way to err: 
The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map, 
And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap ; 
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 
Stumbling o’er recollections; now we clap 
Our hands, and cry “ Eureka!” it is clear — 
When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. 


LXXXII. 

Alas! the lofty city! and alas! 

The trebly hundred triumphs ! (*) and the day 

When Brutus made the dagger’s edge surpass 

The conqueror’s sword in bearing fame away! 

Alas, for Tully’s voice, and Virgil’s lay, 

And Livy’s pictured page ! — but these shall be 

Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. 

Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see 
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free ! 
(1) For a comment on this and the two following stanzas, the reader may consult 

Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. 


(2) Orosius gives three hundred and twenty for the number of triumphs. He is 
followed by Panvinius; and Panvinus by Mr. Gibbon and the modern writers. 


J 


CANTO Iv, PILGRIMAGE. 168 


LXXXIII. 


Oh thou, whose chariot roll’d on Fortune’s wheel, (*) 
Triumphant Sylla! ‘Thou, who didst subdue 
Thy country’s foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel 
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due 
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
O’er prostrate Asia ; — thou, who with thy frown 
Annihilated senates — Roman, too, 
With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 

With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown — 


LXXXIV. 


The dictatorial wreath, — couldst thou divine 
To what would one day dwindle that which made 
Thee more than mortal? and that so supine 
By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid ? 
She who was named Eternal, and array’d 
Her warriors but to conquer — she who veii’d 
Earth with her haughty shadow, and display’d, 
Until the o’er-canopied horizon fail’d, 
Her rushing wings — Oh! she who was Almighty hail’d ! 


LXXXV. 


Sylla was first of victors ; but our own 
The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell; he 
Too swept off senates while he hew’d the throne 
Down to a block — immortal rebel! See 
What crimes it costs to be a moment free 
And famous through all ages! but beneath 
His fate the moral lurks of destiny ; 
His day of double victory and death 
Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his breath. 


(1) Certainly were it not for these two traits in the life of Sylla, alluded to in this 
stanza, we should regard him as a monster unredeemed by any admirable quality. 
The atonement of his voluntary resignation of empire may perhaps be accepted by 
us, as it seems to have satisfied the Romans, who, if they had not respected, must 
have destroyed him. ‘There could be no mean, no division of opinion; they must 
have all thought, ike Eucrates, that what had appeared ambition was a love of glory, 
and that what had been mistaken for pride was a real grandeur of soul. * 


+ “ Seigneur, vous changez toutes mes idées de la facon dont je vous vois agir. 
Je croyois que vous aviez de l’ambition, mais aucune amour pour la gloire: je voyois 
bien que votre ame étoit haute; mais je ne soupconnois pas qu’elle fut grande.”’— 
Dialogues de Sylla et d’Eucrate. 


164 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO IY 


LXXXVI. 
The third of the same moon whose former course 
Had all but crown’d him, on the self-same day 
Deposed him gently from his throne of force, 
And laid him with the earth’s preceding clay. (ἢ) 
And show’d not Fortune thus how fame and sway 
And all we deem delightful, and consume 
Our souls to compass through each arduous way. AP 
Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb ? {25 
Where they but so in man’s, how different were his doom !) 


LXXXVII. 


And thou, dread statue! yet existent in (*) 

The austerest form of naked majesty, 

Thou who beheldest, ’mid the assassins’ din, 

At thy bathed base the bloody Czesar lie, 

Folding his robe in dying dignity, 

An offering to thine altar from the queen 

Of gods and men, great Nemesis! did he die, 

And thou, too, perish, Pompey? have ye been 
Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene ! 


LXXXVIII. 

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome (°) 

She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart 

‘The milk of conquest yet within the dome 

Where, as a monument of antique art, 

‘Thou standest : — Mother of the mighty heart, 

Which the great founder suck’d from thy wild teat, 

Scorch’d by the Roman Jove’s etherial dart, 

And thy limbs black with lightning — dost thou yet 
Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget ἢ 


LXXXIX. 
Thou dost ; — but all thy foster-babes are dead — 
The men of iron; and the world hath rear’d 
Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled 
In imitation of the things they fear’d, 
And fought and conquer’d, and the same course steer’d, 
At apish distance ; but as yet none have, | 
Nor could, the same supremacy have near’d, 
Save one vain man, who is not in the grave, 
‘But, vanquish’d by himself, to his own slaves a slave — 
(1) On the third of September, Cromwell gained the victory of Dunbar; a year 


afterwards he obtained “ his crowning mercy” of Worcester ; and a few years after 
on the same day, which he had ever esteemed the most fortunate for him, died. 


(2,3) See “ Historical Notes,” Nos. XXIV. XXV. 


CANTO IV. PILGRIMAGE. 165 


x oy 

The fool of false dominion — and a kind 
Of bastard Cesar, following him of old 
With steps unequal ; for the Roman’s mind 
Was modell’d in a less terrestrial mould, (’) 
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, 
And an immortal instinct which redeem’d 
The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold; 
Alcides with the distaff now he seem’d 

At Cleopatra’s feet, — and now himself he beam’d. 


XCI. 
And came — and saw — and conquer’d! But the man 
Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, 
Like a train’d falcon, in the Gallic van, 
Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, 
With a deaf heart which never seem’d to be 
A listener to itself, was strangly framed ; 
With but one weakest weakness — vanity, 
Coquettish in ambition — still he aim’d — 
At what? can he avouch — or answer what he claiim’d? 


XCII. . 
And would be all or nothing — nor could wait 
For the sure grave to level him; few years 
Had fix’d him with the Ceesars in his fate, 
On whom we tread: For this the conqueror rears 
The arch of triumph! and for this the tears 
And blood of earth flow on as they have flow’d, 
An universal deluge, which appears 
Without an ark for wretched man’s abode, 
And ebbs but to reflow ! — Renew thy rainbow, God ! 


XCIIl. 
What from this barren being do we reap 7 
Our senseS narrow, and our reason frail, (*) 
Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, 
And all things weigh’d in custom’s faisest scale ; 
Opinion an omnipotence, — whose vez 
Mantles the earth with darkness, until right 
And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale 
Lest their own judgments should become too bright, 
And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too much 


light. 
(1) See “" Historical Notes,” at the end of this Canto, No. XX VI. 
(2) “. . . . omnes pene veteres ; qui nihil cognosci, nihil percepi, nihil sciri posse 


dixerunt ; angustos sensus ; imbecillos animos, brevia curricula vitz ; in profundo ve- 


166 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO IV. 


XCIV. 


And thus they plod in sluggish misery, 
Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, 
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, 
Bequeathing their hereditary rage 
To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage 
War for their chains, and rather than be free, 
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage 
Within the same arena where they see 
Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. 


KCV. 


I speak not of men’s creeds — they rest between 
Man and his Maker — but of things allow’d, 

Averr’d, and known, — and daily, hourly seen — 

‘The yoke that is upon us doubly bow’d, 

And the intent of tyranny avow’d, 

The edict of Earth’s rulers, who are grown 

The apes of him who humbled once the proud, 

And shook them from their slumbers on the throne ; 
Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. 


XCVI. 


Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer’d be, 
And Freedom find no champion and no child 
Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
Sprung forth a Pallas, arm’d and undefiled? 
Or must such minds be nourish’d in the wild, 
Deep in the unpruned forest, ’midst the roar 
Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 
On infant Washington? Has Earth no mor 
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore ? 


ritatem demersam ; opinionibus et institutis omnia teneri: nihil veritati relinqui : 
deinceps omnia tenebris circumfusa esse dixerunt.”* The eighteen hundred years 
which have elapsed since Cicero wrote this have not removed any of the imperfections 
of humanity ; and the complaints of the ancient philosophers may, without injustice 
or affectation, be transcribed in a poem written yesterday. : 


* Academ. 1. 13. 


CANTO IV. PILGRIMAGE. 167 


XCVII. 
But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, 
And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
To Freedom’s cause, in every age and clime ; 
Because the deadly days which we have seen, 
And vile Ambition, that built up between 
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, 
And the base pageant last upon the scene, 
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall 
Which nips life’s tree, and dooms man’s worst — his second 
fall. | σι κα ῥεόταψιν J 


΄“ + 2 7 é Ζ 

et eee |, 4 ΠῚ yt 9. FA : 

Πρ & BOG 
Fi « . 


Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, 
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind ; 
Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying, 
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ;_, 
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
Chopp’d by the axe, looks rough and little worth, 
But the sap lasts, and still the seed we find 
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North; ©, 
So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. 


Pay, 


XE. 
There is a stern round tower of other days, (Ὁ) 
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
Such as an army’s baffled strength delays, 
Standing with half its battlements alone, 
And with two thousand years of ivy grown, 
The garland of eternity, where wave 
‘The green leaves over all by time o’erthrown ; — 
What was this tower of strength? within its cave 
What treasure lay so lock’d, so hid? — A woman’s grave. 
| 


σ. 
But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
Tomb’d in a palace? Was she chaste and fair 1 
Worthy a king’s -— or more —a Roman’s bed? 
What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear 2 
What daughter of her beauties was the heir? 
How lived — how loved — how died she? Was she not 
So honour’d — and conspicuously there, 
Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, 
Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot ? 


(1) Alluding to the tomb of Cecilia Metella, called Capo di Bove, in the Appian 
Way. See—Historical Mlustrations of the [Vth Canto of Childe Harold. 


168 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO IV 


Cl. 


Was she as those who love their lords, or they 
Who love the lords of others? such have been 
Even in the olden time, Rome’s annals say. 
Was she a matron of Cornelia’s mien, 
Or the light air of Egypt’s graceful queen, 
Profuse of joy — or ’gainst it did she war, 
Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean 
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 
Love from amongst her griefs ?— for such the affections are. 


Cll. 
Perchance she died in youth: it may be, bow’d 
With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
That weigh’d upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
Might gather o’er her beauty, and a gloom 
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom 
Heaven gives its favourites — early death; yet shed (ἢ) 
A sunset charm around her, and illume 
With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, 
Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. 


CIIl. 


Perchance she died in age — surviving all, 
Charms, kindred, children — with the silver gray 
On her long tresses, which might yet recal, 
It may be, still a something of the day - 
When they were braided, and her proud array 
And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed 
By Rome but whither would Conjecture stray ? 
Thus much alone we know — Metella died, 
The wealthiest Roman’s wife: Behold his love or pride ! 


CIV. 
I know not why — but standing thus by thee ἢ 
It seems as if I had thine inmate known, ay 


Thou tomb! and other days come back on me 
With recollected music, though the tone 
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan 
Of dying thunder on the distant wind ; 
Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
Till I had bodied forth the heated mind 
Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin leaves behind ; 


(1) “ Ov ci ϑεοὶ φιλοῦσιν, ἀποθνήσκει νέος. 
Τὸ γὰρ ϑανεῖν οὐκ αἰσχοὸν ἀλλ αἰσχρῶς ϑανεῖνς 
Rich. Franc. Phil. Brunck. Poetz Gnomici, p. 231, edit. 1784, 


CANTO Iv. PILGRIMAGE, 169 


CV. 
And from the planks, far shatter’d o’er the rocks, 
Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
Which rushes on the solitary shore 
Where all lies founder’d that was ever dear: 
But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer ? 
There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here. 


CVI. 
Then let the winds howl on! their harmony 
Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
The sound shall temper with the owlets’ cry, 
As I now hear them, in the fading light 
Dim o’er the bird of darkness’ Π site, 
Answering each other on the Palatine, 
With their large eyes, all glistening gray and bright, 
And sailing pions. — Upon such a shrine 
What are our petty griefs ? —let me not number mine. 


CVII. 

Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown 

Matted and mass’d together, hillocks heap’d 

On what were chambers, arch crush’d, column strown 

In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescos steep’d 

In subterranean damps, where the owl peep’d, 

Deeming it midnight ---- Temples, baths, or halls ? 

Pronounce who can ; for all that Learning reap’d 

From her research hath been, that these are walls — 
3ehold the Imperial Mount! ’tis thus the mighty falls. (ἢ) 


CVIII. 
There is the moral of all human tales ; (*) 
Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, 
First Freedom and then Glory — when that fails, 
Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last. 
And History, with all her volumes vast, 
Hath but one page, —’tis better written here, 
Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amass’d 
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, 
Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask Away with words ! 
draw near, 


(1) The Palatine is one mass of ruins, particularly on the side towards the Circus 
Maximus. The very soil is formed of crumbled brickwork. Nothing has been told, 
nothing can be told, to satisfy the belief of any but a Roman antiquary. See — 
Historical Illustrations, page 206. 


(2) Yhe author of the Life of Cicero, speaking of the opinion entertained of Bri- 


170 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO lV. 


cM: 
Admire, exult — despise — laugh, weep, — for here 
There is such matter for all feeling : — Man! 
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, 
Ages and realms are crowded in this span, 
‘This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
‘The pyramid of empires pinnacled, 
Of Glory’s gewgaws shinning in the van 
Till the sun’s rays with added flame were fill’d! 
Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to biild! 


CX. 


Tully was not so eloquent as thou, 
Thou nameless column with the buried base ! 
What are the laurels of the Cesar’s brow ? 
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. 
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 
Titus or Trajan’s? No —’tis that of Time: 
‘Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace 
Scofling ; and apostolic statues climb 
‘fo crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime, (') 


ΟΧΙ.- 


Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, 

And looking to the stars: they had contain’d 

A spirit which with these would find a home, 

‘fhe last of those who o’er the whole earth reign’d. 
‘The Roman globe, for after none sustain’d, 

But yielded back his conquests : — he was more 
‘Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain’d 

With household blood and wine, serenely wore 


His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan’s name adore. (7) 


tain by that orator and his cotemporary Romans, has the following eloquent passage : 
‘ From their railleries of this kind, on the barbarity and misery of our island, ono 
cannot help reflecting on the surprising fate and revolutions of kingdoms ; how Rome, 
once the mistress of the world, the seat of arts, empire, and glory, now lies sunk in 
sloth, ignorance, and poverty, enslaved to the most cruel as well as to the mest con- 
temptible of tyrants, superstition and religious imposture : while this remote country, 
anciently the jest and contempt of the polite Romans, is become the happy seat of 
liberty, plenty, and letters; flourishing in all the arts and refinements of civil life ; 
yet running perhaps the same course which Rome itself had run before it, from vir- 
tuous industry to wealth ; from wealth to luxury; from luxury to an impatience of 
discipline, and corruption of morals: till, by a total degeneracy and loss of virtue, 
being grown ripe for destruction, it fall a prey at last to some hardy oppressor, and, 
with the loss of liberty, losing every thing that is valuable, sinks gradually again into 
its original barbarism.” * Ἶ 

(1) The column of Trajan is surmounted by St. Peter; that of Aurelius by St. 
Paul. See — Historical Illustrations of the [Vth Canto, το. 


* The History of the life of M. ‘Tullius Cicero, sect. vi. vol. i. p, 102. The con- 


CANTO IV. PILGRIMAGE. 171 


CXIl. 


Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place 
- Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the steep 
Varpeian ? fittest goal of Treason’s race, 
The promontory whence the Traitor’s Leap 
Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors heap 
Their spoils here? Yes ; and in yon field below, 
A thousand years of silenced factions sleep —— 
The Forum, where the immortal accents glow, 
And still the eloquent air breathes — burns with Cicero ! 


CXIII. 


The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood : 

Here a proud people’s passions were exhaled, 

From the first hour of empire in the bud 

To that when further worlds to conquer fail’d ; 

But long before had Freedom’s face been veil’d, 

And Anarchy assumed her attributes ; 

Till every lawless soldier who assail’d 

Trod on the trembling senate’s slavish mutes, 
Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. 


(2) Trajan was proverbially the best of the Roman princes ;* and it would be 
easier to find a sovereign uniting exactly the opposite characteristics, than one pos- 
sessed of all the happy qualities ascribed to this emperor. ‘‘ When he mounted the 
throne,” says the historian Dion,f ‘‘ he was strong in body, he was vigorous in 
mind ; age had impaired none of his faculties ; he was altogether free from envy and 
from detraction ; he honoured all the good, and he advanced them; and on this ac- 
count they could not be the objects of his fear, or of his hate ; he never listened to 
informers; he gave not way to his anger; he abstained equally from unfair exac- 
tions and unjust punishments; he had rather be loved as a man than honoured as a 
sovereign ; he was affable with his people, respectful to the senate, and universally 
beloved by both; he inspired none with dread but the enemies of his country.” 


trast has been reversed in a late extraordinary instance. A gentleman was thrown 
into prison at Paris ; efforts were made for his release. ‘The French minister con- 
tinued to detain him, under the pretext that he was not an Englishman, but only « 
Roman. See ‘ Interesting Facts relating to Joachim Murat,” pag. 139. 


* “ Hujus tantum memoriz delatum est, ut, usque ad nostram «tatem non aliter 
in Senatu principibus acclamatur, nisi, FELICIOR . AVGVSTO .MELIOR . 
TRAJANO.” Eutrop. Brev. Hist. Rom. lib. viii. cap. v. 


ἡ Τῷ τε γὰρ σωματι eppwro . . .. - - Και τή ψυχή ἡκμαζεν, ὡς μηθ᾽ ὑπὸ γηρως ἂμ- 
θλύνεσθαι . . .. καὶ ουτ᾽ ἐφθονει ουτε καθηρει τινὰ, ἀλλὰ καὶ πάνυ πάντας τοὺς ἀγαθοὺς 
ἐτίμα καὶ ἐμεγάλυνε" καὶ διὰ τοῦτο ουτε ἐφοθεῖτό τινα αὑτῶν, ovte ἐμίσει. . διαβολαῖς 
τε ἡκίστα ἐπιστεύε, καὶ ὀργῆ nktoTa ἐδουλοῦτο " τῶν τε χρημάτων τῶν ἀλλωτρίων ica καὶ 
φόνων τῶν ἀδίκων ἀπείχετο. . .. φιλούμενός τε οὖν ἐπ᾽ αὐτοῖς μᾶλλον ἡ Tipwpevos 
εἐχαιρε, καὶ Tw τε δημῳ μετ᾽ ἐπιείκειας συνεγίνετο, καὶ τῇ γηρουσία σεμνπορεπῶς “ὡμίλει: 
ἀγαπητὸς μὲν πᾶσι " φοθερὸς δὲ μηδενῖ, πλὴν πολεμίοις ων. Hist. Rom. lib. Ixvin. cap. 
vi. et vii. tom. ii. p. 1123, 1124, edit. Hamb. 1750. 


172 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO Iv. 


CXIv. 

Then turn we to her latest tribune’s name, 

From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, 

Redeemer of dark centuries of shame — _ 

The friend of Petrarch — hope of Italy — 

Rienzi! last of Romans! While the tree (’) 

Of freedom’s wither’d trunk puts forth a leaf, 

Even for thy tomb a garland let it be — 

_ The forum’s champion, and the people’s chief — 
Her new-born Numa thou — with reign, alas! too brief. 


CXV. 
Egeria! sweet creation of some heart (7) 
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast ; whate’er thou art 
Or wert, —a young Aurora of the air, 
The nympholepsy of some fond despair ; 
Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, 
Who found a more than common yotary there 
Too much adoring ; whatsoe’er thy birth, 
Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. 


CXVI. 
The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled 
With thine Elysian water-drops ; the face 
Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled, 
Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, 
Whose green, wild margin now no more erase 
Art’s works ; nor must the delicate waters sleep, 
Prison’d in marble, bubbling from the base 
Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 
The rill runs o’er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy, creep 


CXVII. 
Fantastically tangled ; the green hills 
Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass 
The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
_ Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass ; 
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class, 
Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes 
Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass ; 
The sweetness of the violet’s deep blue eyes, 
Kiss’d by the breath of heaven, seems colour’d by its skies. 


(1) The name and exploits of Rienzi must be familiar to the reader of Gibbon. 
Some details and imedited manuscripts relative to this unhappy hero will be seen in the 
Illustrations of the [Vth Canto. 


(2) See “ Historical Notes,” at the end of this canto, No. X XVII. 


CANTO IV PILGRIMAGE. 173 


CXVIII. 


Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 

Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating 

For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover ; 

The purple Midnight veil’d that mystic meeting 

With her most starry canopy, and seating 

Thyself by thine adorer, what befel ? 

This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting 

Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell 
Haunted by holy Love — the earliest oracle ! 


CxXIX. 


And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, 
Blend a celestial with a human heart; 
And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, 
Share with immortal transports ? could thine art 
Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
The purity of heaven to earthly joys, 
Expel the venom and not blunt the dart ---- 
The dull satiety which all destroys — 
And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys 7 


CXX. 


Alas! our young affections run to waste 
Or water but the desert; whence arise 
But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, 
Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, 
Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, 
And trees whose gums are poison; such the plants 
Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies 
O’er the world’s wilderness, and vainly pants 

For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. 


CXXI. 


Oh Love! no habitant of earth thou art ---- 
An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, 
A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, 
But never yet hath seen, nor e’er shall see 
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; 
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, 
_ Even with its own desiring phantasy, 
And to a thought such shape and image given, 
As haunts the unquench’d soul -— parch’d —— wearied —— 
wrung — and riven. 


174 ᾿ CHILDE HAROLD'S CANTO IY. 


ἢ CXXII. 


#4 | Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, 


And fevers into false creation : — where, 

Where are the forms the sculptor’s soul hath seized ? 
In him alone. Can Nature show so fair 7 
Where are the charms and virtues which we dare | 
Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, | 
The unreach’d Paradise of our despair, 
_ Which o’er-informs the pencil and the pen, | 
| And overpowers the page where it would bloom again 7, 


Ϊ 


CXXIII. 


Who loves, raves — ’tis youth’s frenzy — but the cure 
Is bitterer still; as charm by charm unwinds 
Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind’s 
Ideal shape of such ; yet still it binds 
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on. 
Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds: 
The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, 
Seems ever near the prize — wealthiest when most undone. 


CXXIV. 


We wither from our youth, we gasp away — 
Sick — sick; unfound the boon — unslaked the thirst, 
Though to the last, in verge of our decay, 
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first — 
But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. 
Love, fame, ambition, avarice —’tis the same, 
Each idle — and all ill— and none the worst — 
For all are meteors with a different name, 
And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. 


CXXV. 


Few —— none — find what they love or could have loved, 
Though accident, blind contact, and the strong 
Necessity of loving, have removed 
Antipathies — but to recur, ere long, 
Envenom’d with irrevocable wrong ; 
And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 
And miscreator, makes and helps along 
Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, 
Whose touch turns Hope to dust, — the dust we all have trod. 


΄ 


σι 


CANTO IV. PILGRIMAGE. 17 


CXXVI. 


[Our life 5 ἃ falas nature — tis not in 

(The harmony of things, —this hard decree, 

.|'This uneradicable taint of sin, 

This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, 

Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be 


᾿ 


as skies which rain their plagues on men like dew 
‘Disease, death, bondage — all the woes we see — 


/ \And worse, the woes we see not — which throb through 
‘The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. 


πο...“ τ΄ 


j ἰ 
L 

CXXVII. 

Yet let us ponder boldly —’tis a base (ἢ) 

Abandonment of reason. to resign 

Cur right of thought — our last and only place 

Of refuge ; this, at least, shall still be mine : 

Though from our birth the faculty divine 

Is chain’d and tortured — cabin’d, cribb’d, confined, 
And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine 

Too brightly on the unprepared mind, 

The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind. 


CXXVIII. 


Arches on arches! as it were that Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line, 
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, 
Her Coliseum stands ; the moonbeams shine 
As ’twere its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the light which streams here, to illume 
This long-explored but still exhaustless mine 
Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 

Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 


(1) “ At all events,” says the author of the Academical Questions, ‘ I trust, what- 
ever may be the fate of my own speculations, that philosophy will regain that estima- 
tion which it ought to possess. The free and philosophic spirit of our nation has been 
the theme of admiration to the world. This was the proud distinction of Englishmen, 
and the luminous source of all their glory. Shall we then forget the manly and digni- 
fied sentiments of our ancestors, to prate in the language of the mother or the nurse 
about our good old prejudices? This is not the way to defend the cause of truth. It 
was not thus that our fathers maintained it in the brilliant periods of our history. Pre- 
judice may be trusted to guard the outworks for a short space of time, while reason 
slumbers in the citadel; but if the latter smk into a lethargy, the former will quickly 
erect a standard for herself. Philosophy, wisdom, and hberty, support each other: 
he who will not reason is a bigot ; he who cannot, is a fool; and he who dares not, is 
aslave.”’ Preface, p. xiv. xv. vol. i. 1805. 


176 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO IV. 


pK. 
Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, 
Floats o’er this vast and wondrous monument, 
And shadows forth its glory. ‘There is given 
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, 
A spirit’s feeling, and where he hath leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
And magic in the ruin’d battlement, 
For which the palace of the present hour 

Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. 


CXXX. 
Oh Time! the beautifier of the dead, 
Adorner of the ruin, comforter 
And only healer when the heart hath bled — 
Time! the corrector where our judgments err, 
The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher, 
For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift, 
Which never loses though it doth defer — 
Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift 
My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift : 


ΧΧΕΙ. 

Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine 

And temple more divinely desolate, 

Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, 

Ruins of years —— though few, yet full of fate : — 

If thou hast ever seen me too elate, 

Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne 

Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 

Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn 
This iron in my soul in vain— shall they not mourn? 


CXXXII. 
And thou, who never yet of human wrong 
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis ! (’) 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long -— 
Thou, who didst call the Furies from the abyss, 
And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss 
For that unnatural retribution — just, 
Had it but been from hands less near than this 
Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust! 
Dost thou not hear my heart? -— Awake! thou shalt, and 
must. 


(1) See “ Historical Notes,” at the end of this canto, No, X XVIII. 


CANTO IV. PILGRIMAGE, 4 


CXXXII. 


[t is not that I may not have incurr’d 

For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 

I bleed withal, and, had it been conferr’d 

With-a just weapon, it had flow’d unbound ; 

But now my blood shall not sink in the ground ; 

To thee I do devote it — thou shalt take 

The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found, 

Which if £ have not taken for the sake 
But let that pass —I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. 


CXXXIV. 


And if my voice break forth, ’tis not that now 
I shrink from what it suffer’d: let him speak 
Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, 
Or seen my mind’s convulsion leave it weak ; 
But in this page a record will I seek. 
Not in the air shall these my words disperse, 
Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall wreak 
The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, 
And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse ! 


CXXXV. 


That curse shall be Forgiveness.-— Have I not — 
Hear me, my mother Earth! behold it, Heaven ! — 
Have I not had to wrestle with my lot ? 
Have I not suffer’d things to be forgiven ? 
Have I not had my brain sear’d, my heart riven, 
Hopes sapp’d, name blighted, Life’s life lied away ? 
And only not to desperation driven, 
Because hot altogether of such clay 

As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 


CXXXVI. 


From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 

Have I not seen what human things could do? 

From the loud roar of foaming calumny 

To the small whisper of the as paltry few, 

And subtler venom of the reptile crew, 

The Janus glance of whose significant eye, 

Learning to lie with silence, would seem true, 

And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh, 
Deal round to happy fools its sveechless obloquy. 
VOL. Il. —N 


»» "77 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO IV, 


ἽΝ OXXXVII. 

ut I haye lived, and have not lived in vain : 
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, 
And my frame perish even in conquering pain ; 
But there is that within me which shall tire 
Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire ; 
Something unearthly, which they deem not of, 
Like the remember’d tone of a mute lyre, 

Shall on their soften’d spirits sink, and move 
In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 


CXXXVIII. 
The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread power 1 
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
Walk’st in the shadow of the midnight hour 
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear ; 
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
Their ivy mantles,/and the solemn scene 
/ Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear 
| That we become a part of what has been, 
‘And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. 
CRAKIN. 
And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 
in murmur’d pity, or loud-roar’d applause, 
As man was slaughter’d by his fellow man. 
And wherefore slaughter’d ? wherefore, but because 
Such were the bloody Circus’ genial laws, 
And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not ? 
What matters where we fall to fill the maws / 
Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot 
Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot,/ 


OXE. 
I see before me the Gladiator lie : (*) 
He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
And his droop’d head sinks gradually low — 
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now 
The arena swims around him —~ he is gone, 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail’d the wretch who 
won. 


(1) Whether the wonderful statue which suggested this image be a laquearian 


CANTO Iv. PILGRIMAGE. 19 


CXLI. 


He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away. 
He reck’d not of the life he lost nor prize, 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
There were his young barbarians all at play, 
There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 
Butcher’d to make a Roman holiday — (' 
All this rush’d with his blood — Shall he expire 
And unavenged !— Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire ! 


CXLII. 


But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam ; 

And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, 

And roar’d or murmur’d like a mountain stream 

Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 

Here, where the Roman millions’ blame or praise 

Was death or life, the playthings. of .a.crowd, (*) 

My voice sounds much — and fall the stars’ faint rays 

On the arena void — seats crush’d — walls bew’d — 
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. 


gladiator, which, in spite of Winkelmann’s criticism, has been stoutiy maintained,* or 
whether it be a Greek herald, as that great antiquary positively asserted,} or whether 
it is to be thought a Spartan or barbarian shield-bearer, according to the opinion of 
his Italian editor,{ 1t must assuredly seem a copy of that masterpiece of Giedlous 
which represented “ a wounded man..dying, who perfectly expressed what there re- 
mained of life in him.”§ Monifaucon|| and Maffeif thought it the identical statue : 
‘but that statue"was of bronze. The gladiator was once in the villa Ludovizi, and 
was bought by Clement XII. The right arm is an entire restoration of Michael 
Angelo.** 


(1, 2) See “ Historical Notes,” at the end of this canto, Nos. XXIX, KXX. 


«Ὁ i 4’ 

δ, * By the Abate Bracci, dissertazione supra un clipeo votivo, &c. Preface, pag. 7. 
who accounts for the cord round the neck, but not for the horn, which it does not 
appear the gladiators themselves ever used. Note A, Storia delle Arti, tom. ii. p. 
205. 

{ Hither Polifontes, herald of Laius, killed by Gidipus ; or Cepreas, herald of Eu- 
ritheus, killed by the Athenians when he endeavoured to drag the Heraclide from the 
altar of mercy, and in whose honour they instituted annual games, continued to the 
time of Hadrian ; or Anthemocritus, the Athenian herald, killed by the Megarenses, 
who never recovered the impiety. See Storia delle Arti, &c. tom. ii. p. 203, 204, 
205, 206, 207, lib. ix. cap. 11. 

1 Storia, &c. tom. ii. p. 207. Not. (A.) 

ὃ “ Vulneratum deficientem fecit in quo possit intelligi quantum restat anima.” 
Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. xxxiv. cap. 

|| Antiq. tom. iil. par. 2, tab. 155. 

7 Race. stat. tab. 64. 


** Mus. Capitol. tom, il. p. 154. edit. 1755, 


180 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO IV. 


CXLIII. 
A ruin — yet what ruin! from its mass 
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear’d ; 
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, 
And marvel where the spoil could have appear’d. 
Hath it indeed been plunder’d, or but clear’d ? 
Alas! developed, opens the decay, 
When the colossal fabric’s form is near’d : 
It will not bear the brightness of the day, 
Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft away. 


CXLIV. 
But when the rising moon begins to climb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ; 
When the stars twinkle through the loops of time, 
And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear, 
Like laurels on the bald first Cesar’s head ; (’) 
When the light shines serene but doth not glare, 
Then in this magic circle raise the dead : 

Heroes have trod this spot — ’tis on their dust ye tread. 


CXLV. 

«© While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand ; (7) 

‘«‘ When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall ; 

-ς And when Rome falls — the World.” From our own land 

Thus spake the pilgrims o’er this mighty wall 

In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 

Ancient; and these three mortal things are still 

On their foundations, and unalter’d all ; 

Rome and her Ruin past Redemption’s skill, ‘ 
The World, the same wide den — of thieves, or what ye will 


CXEVI. 
Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime — 
Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods, 
From Jove to Jesus — spared and blest by time ; (*) 
Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 


(i) Suetonius informs us that Julius Czsar was particularly gratified by that de- 
eree of the senate, which enabled him to wear a wreath of laurel on all occasions. 
He was anxious, not to show that he was the conqueror of the world, but to hide that 
he was bald. A stranger at Rome would hardly have guessed at the motive, nor 
should we without the help of the historian. 


(2) This is quoted in the “ Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire ;” and a notice 
on the Coliseum may be seen in the Historical Illustrations to the [Vth Canto of 
Childe Harold. 


(3) ‘© Though plundered of all its brass, except the ring which was necess«ry to 


CANTO IV. PILGRIMAGE. 181 


Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods 
His way through thorns to ashes —— glorious dome ! 
Shalt thou not last? 'Time’s scythe and tyrants’ rods 
Shiver upon thee — sanctuary and home 

Of art and piety — Pantheon ! — pride of Rome ! 


CXLVII. 


Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts! 
Despoil’d yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
A holiness appealing to all hearts — 
To art a model; and to him who treads 
Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds 
Her light through thy sole aperture ; to those 
Who worship, here are altars for their beads ; 
And they who feel for genius may repose 
Their eyes on honour’d forms, whose busts around them 
close. (ἢ) 


CXLVIII. 


There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light (7) 

What do I gaze on? Nothing: Look again ! 

Two forms are slowly shadow’d on my sight — 

Two insulated phantoms of the brain : 

It is not so; I see them full and plain — 

An old man, and a female young and fair, 

Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 

The blood is nectar : — but what doth she there, 
With ner unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare ? 


preserve the aperture above; though exposed to repeated fires ; though sometimes 
flooded by the river, and always open to the rain, no monument of equal antiquity is 
so well preserved as this rotundo, It passed with little alteration from the Pagan 
into the present worship ; and so convenient were its niches for the Christian altar, 
that Michael Angelo, ever studious of ancient beauty, introduced their design as a 
model in the Catholic church.” 

Forsyth’s Remarks, &c. on Italy, p. 137. sec. edit. 


(1) The Pantheon has been made a receptacle for the busts of modern great, or, 
at least, distinguished, men. The flood of light which once fell through the large orb 
above on the whole circle of divinities, now shines on a numerous assemblage of mor- 
tals, some one or two of whom bave been almost deified by the veneration of their 
countrymen. 

(2) This and the three next stanzas allude to the story of the Roman daughter, 
which is recalled to the traveller by the site, or pretended site, of that adventure, now 
shown at the church of St, Nicholas in Carcere. The difficulties attending the full 
belief of the tale are stated in Historical Illustrations, &c. 


182 CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO IV. 


CXLIX. 
Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, 
Where on the heart and from the heart we took 
Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, 
Blest into mother, in the innocent look, 
Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 
No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 
Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook 
She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — 
What may the fruit be yet? —I know not — Cain was Eve’s. 


el. 
But here youth offers to old age the food, 
The milk of his own gift ; — it is her sire 
To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
Born with her birth. No; he shall not expire 
While in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
Of health and holy feeling can provide 
Great Nature’s Nile, whose deep streams rises higher 
Than Egypt’s river : — from that gentle side 
Drink, drink and live, old man! MHeaven’s realm holds ne 
such tide. 


CLI. 
The starry fable of the milky way 
Has not thy story’s purity ; it is 
A constellation of a sweeter ray, 
And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 
Where sparkle distant worlds : — Oh, holiest nurse ! 
No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
To thy sire’s heart, replenishing its source 
With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 


CLI. 
Turn to the Mole which Hadrian rear’d on high, (’) 
Imperial mimic of old Egypt’s piles, 
Colossal copyist of deformity, 
Whose travell’d phantasy from the far Nile’s 
Enormous model, doom’ the artist’s toils 
‘Vo build for giants, and for his vain earth, " 
His shrunken ashes, raise this dome: How smiles 
The gazer’s eye with philosophic mirth, 

To view the huge design which sprung from such a birth ! 


(1) The castle of St. Angelo. See—Historical Illustrations. 


CANTO IV. PILGRIMAGE. 183 


CLIil. 

But lo! the dome — the vast and wondrous dome, (ἢ) 

To which Diana’s marvel was a cell ---- 

Christ’s mighty shrine above his martyr’s tomb ! 

I have beheld the Eiphesian’s miracle — 

Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 

The hyena and the jackall in their shade ; 

I have beheld Sophia’s bright roofs swell 

Their glittermg mass’ the sun, and have survey’d 
Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray’d ; 


οἵαν. 
But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
Standest alone — with nothing like to thee — 
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. 
Since Zion’s desolation, when that He 
Forsook his former city, what could be, 
Of earthly structures, in his honour piled, 
Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty, 
Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled 
In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. 


CLV. 
Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not ; 
And why ? it is not lessen’d; but thy mind, 
Expanded by the genius of the spot, 
Has grown colossal, and can only find 
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou 
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, 
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now 
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow, ——* 


CLVI. 
Thou movest — but increasing with the advance, 
Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise, 
Deceived by its gigantic elegance ; 
Vastness which grows — but grows to harmonise — 
All musical in its immensities ; 
Rich marbles — richer painting — shrines where flame 
‘The lamps of gold — and haughty dome which vies 
In air with Earth’s chief structures, though their frame 
Sits on the firm-set ground — and this the clouds must claim. 


(1) This and the six next stanzas have a reference to the church of St. Peter’s, 
For a measurement of the comparative length of this basilica, and the other great 
churches of Europe, see the pavement of St. Peter’s, and the classical Tour through 
Italy, vol, 11. pag. 125. et seq. chap. iv. 


CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO IV 


CLVII. 


Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must break, 
To separate contemplation, the great whole ; 

And as the ocean many bays will make, 

That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul 

To more immediate objects, and control 

Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart 

{ts eloquent proportions, and unroll 

In mighty graduations, part by part, 


The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, 


CLVIII. 


Not by its fault— but thine: Our outward sense 
Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is 

That what we have of feeling most intense 
Outstrips our faint expression ; even so this 
Outshining and o’erwhelming edifice 

Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great 
Defies at first our Nature’s littleness, 

Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 


Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 


CLIX. 


Then pause, and be enlighten’d; there is more 

In such a survey than the sating gaze 

Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore 

The worship of the place, or the mere praise 

Of art and its great masters, who could raise 

γῆ μετ former time, nor skill, nor thought could plau ; 
The fount&in of sublimity displays 

Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man 


Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. 


CLX. 


Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 

Laocoon’s torture dignifying pain — 

A father’s love and mortal’s agony 

With an immortal’s patience blending : — Vain 
The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain 
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon’s grasp, 
The old man’s clench; the long envenom’d chain 
Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp 


Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. 


CANTO IV. PILGRIMAGE. 185 


CLXI. 


Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, 

The God of life, and poesy, and light — 

The Sun in human limbs array’d, and brow 

All radiant from his triumph in the fight ; 

The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright 

With an immortal’s vengeance ; in his eye 

And nostril beautiful disdain, and might 

And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, 
Developing in that one glance the Deity. 


CLXII. 


But in his delicate form — a dream of Love, 
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast 
Long’d for a deathless lover from above, 
And madden’d in that vision — are exprest 
All that ideal beauty ever bless’d 
The mind with in its most unearthly mood, 
When each conception was a heavenly guest — 
A ray of immortality — and stood, 

Starlike, around, until they gather’d to a god! 


CLXIII. 


And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven 
The fire which we endure, it was repaid 
By him to whom the energy was given 
Which this poetic marble hath array’d 
With an eternal glory — which if made, 
By human hands, is not of human thought ; 
And Time himself hath hallow’d it, nor laid 
One ringlet in the dust — nor hath it caught 
A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which ‘twas 
wrought. 


CLXIV. 


But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, 

The being who upheld it through the past ? 

Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. 

He is no more — these breathings are his last ; 

His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, 

And he himself as nothing : — if he was 

Aught but a phantasy, and could be class’d 

With forms which live and suffer — let that pass — 
His shadow fades away into Destruction’s mass, 


186 


CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO tv. 


CLXV. 


Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all 

That we inherit in its mortal shroud, 

And spreads the dim and universal pall 

Through which all things grow phantoms ; and the cloud 
Between us sinks and all which ever giow’d, 

Till Glory’s self is twilight, and displays 

A melancholy halo scarce allow’d 

To hover on the verge of darkness ; rays 


Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, 


CLXVI. 


And send us prying into the abyss, 

To gather what we shall be when the frame 
Shall be resolved to something less than this 

Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame, 
And wipe the dust from off the idle name 

We never more shall hear, — but never more, 
Oh. happier thought! can we be made the same : 
It is enough in sooth that once we bore 


These fardels of the heart — the heart whose sweat was gore. 


CLXVII. 


Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 

A long low distant murmur of dread sound, 

Such as arises when a nation bleeds 

With some deep and immedicable wound ; 

Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground, 
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief 

Seems royal still, though with her head discrown’d, 

And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 


She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. 


CLXVIIlI. 


Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ? 
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ? 
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low 
Some less majestic, less beloved head ? 

in the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, 
The mother of a moment, o’er thy boy, 

Death hush’d that pang for ever: with thee fled 
The present happiness and promised joy 


~ Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem’d to cloy. 


CANTO IV. PILGRIMAGE. 187 


CLXIX. 

Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, 

Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored! 

Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, 

And Freedom’s heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard 

Her many griefs for OnE ; for she had pour’d 

Her orisons for thee, and o’er thy head 

Beheld her Iris. — 'Thou, too, lonely lord, 

And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed ! 
The husband of a year! the father of the dead! 


CLXX. 
Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; 
Thy bridal’s fruit is ashes: in the dust 
The fair-hair’d Daughter of the Isles is laid, 
The love of millions! How we did intrust 
Futurity to her! and, though it must 
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem’d 
Our children should obey her child, and bless’d 
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem’d 
Like stars to shepherds’ eyes : —-’twas but a meteor beam’d. 


CURE: 
Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well : 
The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, 
Which from the birth of monarchy-hath rung 
Its knell in princely ears, till the o’erstung 
Nations have arm’d in madness, the strange fate (*) 
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung 
Against their blind omnipotence a weight 
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late,— 


CLX Xile 
These might have been her destiny ; but no, 
Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair, 
Good without effort, great without a foe ; 
But now a bride and mother — and now there ! 
How many ties did that stern moment tear! 
From thy Sire’s to his humblest subject’s breast 
Is link’d the electric chain of that despair, 
Whose shock was as an earthquake’s, and opprest 
The land which loved thee so that none could love thee best. 


(1) Mary died on the scaffold ; Elizabeth of a broken heart; Charles V. a hermit; 
Louis XTV. a bankrupt in means and glory ; Cromwell of anxiety; and, “ the great- 
est is behind,” Napoleon lives a prisoner. To these sovereigns a long but superflu- 
ous list might be added of names equally illustrious and unhappy. 


188 _ CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO IV. 


CLXXIII. 

Lo, Nemi! (*) navell’d in the woody hills 

So far, that the uprooting wind which tears 

The oak from his foundation, and which spills 

The ocean o’er its boundary, and bears 

Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares 

The oval muror of thy glassy lake ; 

And, calm as cherish’d hate, its surface wears 

A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake, 
All coil’d into itself and round, as sleeps the snake. 


CLXXIV. 
And near Albano’s scarce divided waves 
Shine from a sister valley ; — and afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast where sprang the Epic war, 
** Arms and the Man,” whose re-ascending star 
Rose o’er an empire : — but beneath thy right 
Tully reposed from Rome ; — and where yon bar 
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight 
The Sabine farm was till’d, the weary bard’s delight. (°) 


CLXXV. : 
But I forget. — My Pilgrim’s shrine is won, 
And he and 1 must part, — so let it be, —- 
His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
Yet once more let us look upon the sea + 
The midland ocean breaks on him and me, 
And from the Alban Mount we noay behold 
Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we 
Beheld it last by Calpe’s rock unfold 

Those waves, we follow’d on till the dark Euxine roll’d 


CLXXVI. 
Upon the blue Symplegades: long years — 
Long, though not very many, since have done 
Their work on both; some suffering and some tears 
Have left us nearly where we had begun : 
Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run, 
We have had our reward — and it is here ; 
That we can yet feel gladden’d by the sun, 
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. 
(1) The village of Nemi was near the Arician retreat of Egeria, and, from the 
shades which embosomed the temple of Diana, has preserved to this day its distinc- 


tive appellation of The Grove. Nemi is but an evening’s ride from the comfortable 
inn of Albano. 


(2) See ““ Historical Notes,” at the end of this Canto, No. XXXI. 


CANTO Iv. PILGRIMAGE. 184 


2 CLXXVII. 


Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling-place, 
With one fair Spirit for my minister, 
That I might all forget the human race, 
And, hating no one, love but only her! 
Ye Elements ! | — in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted — Can ye not 
Accord me such a being? Do I err 
In deeming such inhabit many a spot? 
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. 


CLXXVIII. hey ' 


7 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
/ There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 


There is society, where none intrudes, Cees ime ce 
/ By the deep Sea, and music in its roar : Γαι he # 
f ΤΥ 40 
jf  pLlove not Man the less, but Nature more, 1 “Ὁ ay 
/ From these our interviews, in which I steal {7 ἢ wt. tbat, 
} » ἥν ὦ 
‘From all I may be, or have been before, Abe Ahn! ete ὦ 


oe Ne σα ORY, Ree aii. ee 


( To mingle with the Universe, and feel seer . fran 


What I can ne’er express, yet can not all cone it 


nT κα ᾿ς, ον RTE πρὶ Micirrere waiter me 


| CLXXTX. | 


off‘on, thou. deep and dark blue Ocean’— roll! 
Ten thousand.ffgets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Ma marks the.earth with ruin — his control 
ee with the sttor® ; — upon the watery plain 
e%vrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow, of man’s ravage, save his own,. 
When, for’amnoment, hike a drop of rain, 
He smks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknell’d, uncoffin’d, atid unknown. 


GLXXX. 
His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him, —— thou dost arise 


And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields 
For earth’s destruction thou dost all despise, ' 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
And send’st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies ἱ 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 


. 


» And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. 


190 


CHILDE HAROLD’S CANTO Ὁ 


CLXXXI. 


The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 

The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 

Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 


Alike the Armada’s pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 


CLXXXII. 


Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ? 
Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 

And many a tyrant since; their shores obey 

The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 

Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou, 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves’ play —— 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 


Such as creation’s dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 


- ΤΣ ΛΟ ΚΙ]. Ὁ “Ὡς Π 
Thou glorious ‘fhirror, where the Almighty’s form © 
Glasses itself in tempests ; in all timeg £ 


Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or! gale, or storm, & 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clim® Ζ 


-- Ὁ 


“αν... 


oe 


Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublind®®— Ζ' 


The image of Eternity ---- the throne C 
Of the Invisible ;. even from out thy slime oF 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone © 


Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. @__ 


CLXXXIV. 


And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wanton’d, with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — ’twas a pleasing fear, 
For I was as it were a child of thee, 

And trusted to thy billows far and near, 


And laid my hand upon thy mane —as I do here. 


\ 


Ὁ 


CANTO IV. PILGRIMAGE. 19] 


CLXXXV. 
My task is done — my song hath ceased — my theme 
Has died into an echo ; it is fit 
'The spell should break of this protracted dream. 
The torch shall be extinguish’d which hath lit 
My midnight lamp —and what is writ, is writ, — 
Would it were worthier ! but 1 am-not. now.. 
That_which.L haye been — and my visions flit 
Less palpably before me — and the glow 
Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. 


cLxxxvi® 

Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been — 
A sound which makes us linger ; — yet — farewell! 
Ye! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 

single recollection, not in vain 
He wore his sandal-shoon, and scallop-shell ; 
Farewell! with him alone may rest the pain, ( 


If such there were — with you, the moral of his goes e 
Ro ὶ 


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HISTORICAL ΝΟΤΕΒ. 


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HISTORICAL NOTES 


TO 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 


« 


1. 
STATE DUNGEONS OF VENICE, 


“7 stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; 
A palace and a prison on each hand.” 
Stanza i. lines 1 and 2. 


THE communication between the ducal palace and the prisons of Venice 1s by a 
gloomy bridge, or covered gallery, high above.the.water, and divided by a stone 
wall into a passage anda cell. The state dungeons, called ‘‘ pozzi,’’ or wells, were 
sunk in the thick walls of the palace; and the prisoner when taken out to die was 
conducted across the gallery to the other side, and being then led back into the other 
compartment, or cell, upon the bridge, was there strangled. The low portal through 
which the criminal was taken into this cell is now walled up ; but the passage is still 
open, and is still known by the name of the Bridge of Sighs. The pozzi are under 
the flooring of the chamber at the foot of the bridge. They were formerly twelve, 
but on the first arrival of the French, the Venetians hastily blocked or broke up the 
deeper of these dungeons. You may still, however, descend by a trap-door, and 
crawl down through holes, half-choked by rubbish, to the depth of two stories below 
the first range. If you are in want of consolation for the extinction of patrician 
power, perhaps you may find it there; scarcely a ray of light glimmers into the nar- 
row gallery which leads to the cells, and the places of confinement themselves are 
totally dark. A small hole in the wall admitted the damp air of the passages, and 
served for the introduction of the prisoner’s food, A wooden pallet, raised a foot 
from the ground, was the only furniture. The conductors tell you that a light was not 
allowed. Thecells are about five paces in length, two and a half in width, and seven 
feet in height. They are directly beneath one another, and respiration is some- 
what difficult in the lower holes. Only one prisoner was found when the republi- 
cans descended into these hideous recesses, and he is said to have been confined six- 
teen years. Butthe inmates ofthe dungeons beneath had left traces of their repent- 
ance, or of their despair, which are still visible, and may, perhaps, owe something to 
recent ingenuity. Some of the detained appear to have offended against, and others 
to have belonged to, the sacred body, not only from their signatures, but from the 
churches and belfries which they have scratched upon the walls. The reader may 
not object to see a specimen of the records prompted by so terrific a solitude. As 
nearly as they could be copied by more than one pencil, three of them are as follows : 


1. NON TI FIDAR AD ALCUNO PENSA 6 TACI 
SE FUGIR VUOI DE SPIONI INSIDIE 6 LACCI 
IL PENTIRTI PENTIRTI NULLA GIOVA 
MA BEN DI VALOR TUO LA VERA PROVA 
1607. api 2. GENARO. FUI RF- 
TENTO P’ LA BESTIEMMA P’ AVER DATO 
DA MANZAR A UN MORTO 
IACOMO . GRITTI .. SCRISSE. 


2. UN PARLAR POCHO et 
NEGARE PRONTO et 
UN PENSAR AL FINE PUO DARE LA VITA 
A NOI ALTRI MESCHINI 


196 HISTORICAL NOTES TO 


1605. 
EGO IOHN BAPTISTA AD 
ECCLESIAM CORTELLARIUS. 


3. DE CHI MI FIDO GUARDAMI DIO 
DE CHI NON MI FIDO MI GUARDARO 10 
A ΤΑΝ ἘΠ Al) ONAN 
Vile ESAGS) 5 uelG. eyBerriie "6 


The copyist has followed, not corrected, the solecisms ; some of which are, now- 
ever, not quite so decided, since the letters were evidently scratched in the dark. 
ft only need be observed, that bestemmia and mangiar may be read in tho first in- 
scription, which was probably written by a prisoner confined for some act of impiety 
committed at a funeral; that Cortellarius is the name of a parish on terra firma, 
near the sea; and that the last initials evidently are put for Viva la santa Chiesa 
Kauolica Romana. 


Il. 
SONG OF THE GONDOLIERS. 


6 In Venice Tasso’s echoes are no more.” 
Stanza iii, line 1. 


The well-known song of the gondoliers, of alternate stanzas from Tasso’s Jerusa= 
lem, has died with the independence of Venice. Editions of the poent, with the origi- 
nal in one column, and the Venetian variations on the other, as sung by the boat- 
men, were once common, and are still to be found. The following extract will serve 
to show the difference between the Tuscan opic and the ‘‘ Canta alla Barcariola.” 


ORIGINAL. 


Canto’ arme pietose, 6 Ἶ capitano 
Che Ἶ gran Sepolcro liberd di Cristo. 
Molto egli oprd col senno, e con la mano 
Molto soffri nel glorioso acquisto ; 
F in van I’ Inferno a lui s’ oppose, e in vano 
S’ armo d’ Asia, e di Libia il popol misto, 
Che il Ciel gli dié favore, e sotto a 1 Santi 
Segni ridusse 1 suoi compagni erranti 


VENETIAN. 


L’ arme pietose de cantar gho vogia, 
E de Goffredo la immortal braura 
Che al fin ? ha libera co strassia, e dogia 
Del nostro buon Gest [a Sepoltura 
De mezo mondo unito, e de quel Bogia 
Missier Pluton non I’ ha bu mai paura: 
Dio l ha agiuta, e 1 compagni sparpagnai 
Tutti ’] gh’ 1 ha messi insieme i di del Dai. 


Somme of the elder gondoliers will, however, take up and continue a stanza of their 
once familiar bard. 

On the 7th of last January, the author of Childe Harold, and another Englishman, 
the writer of this notice, rowed to the Lido with two singers, one of whom was a Car- 
penter, and the other a gondolier. The former placed himself at the prow, the latter 
at the stern of the boat. A little after leaving the quay of the Piazzetta, they began 
to sing, and continued their exercise until we arrived at the island. They gave us, 
amongst other essays, the death of Clorinda, and the palace of Armida; and did not 
sing the Venetian, but the Tuscan verses. The carpenter, however, who was the 
cleverer of the two, and was frequently obliged to prompt his companion, told us that he 
could translate the original. He added, that he could sing almost three hundred stan- 
zag but had not spirits (morbin was the word he used) to learn any more, or to sing 
what he already knew: a man must have idle time on his hands to acquire or to re 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 197 


peat, and, said the poor fellow, ‘look at my clothes and at me; I am starving.” 
This speech was more affecting than his performance, which habit alone can make 
attractive. The recitative was shrill, screaming, and monotonous ; and the gondolier 
behind assisted his voice by holding his hand to one side of his mouth, ‘The carpen- 
ter used a quiet action, which he evidently endeavoured to restrain ; but was too much 
interested in his subject altogether to repress. From these men we learnt that sing- 
ing is not confined to the gondoliers, and that, although the chant is seldom, if ever, 
voluntary, there are still several amongst the lowor classes who are acquainted with a 
few stanzas. 

It does not appear that it is usual for the performers to row and sing at the same 
tme. Although the verses of the Jerusalem are no longer casually heard, there is 
yet much music upon the Venetian canals; and upon holydays, those strangers who 
are not near or informed enough to distinguish the words, may fancy that many of the 
gondolas still resound with the strains of Tasso. The writer of some remarks which 
appeared in the ‘‘ Curiosities of Literature’? must excuse his being twice quoted ; for, 
with the exception of some phrases a little too ambitious and extravagant, he has fur- 
nished a very exact, as well as agreeable, description. 

“ΤῊ Venice the gondoliers know by heart long passages from Ariosto and Tasso. 
and often chant them with a pecuhar melody. But this talent seems at present on the 
decline :—at least, after taking some pains, [ could find no more than two persons who 
delivered to me in this way a passage from Tasso. I must add, that the late Mr. 
Berry once chanted to me a passage in Tasso in the manner, as he assured me, of the 
gondoliers. 

‘‘ There are always two concerned, who alternately sing the strophes. We know 
the melody eventually by Rousseau, to whose songs it is printed; it has properly no 
melodious movement, and is a sort of medium between the canto fermo and the canto 
figurato ; 1 anproaches to the former by recitativical declamation, and to the latier by 
passages and course, by which one syllable is detained and embellished. | 

‘“T entered a gondola by moonlight; one singer placed himself forwards and the 
other aft, and thus proceeded to St. Georgio. One began the song: when he had 
ended his strophe, the other took up the lay, and so continued the song alternately. 
Throughout the whole of it, the same notes invariably returned, but, according to the 
subject matter of the strophe, they laid a greater or a smaller stress, sometimes on one, 
and sometimes on another note, and indeed changed the enunciation of the whole 
strophe as the object of the poem altered. 

‘On the whole, however, the sounds were hoarse and screaming: they seemed, in 
the manner of all rude uncivilised men, to make the excellency of their singing in the force 
of their voice : one seemed desirous of conquering the other by the strength of his lungs ; 
and so far from receiving delight from this scene (shut up as I was in the box of the 
gondola,) I found myself in a very unpleasant situation. 

‘* My companion, to whom I communicated this circumstance, being very desirous to 
keep up the credit of his countrymen, assured me that this singing was very delightful 
when heard at a distance. Accordingly we got out upon the shore, leaving one of the 
singers in the gondola, while the other went to the distance of some hundred paces. 
They now began to sing against one another, and I kept walkmg up and down between 
them both, so as always to leave him who was to begin his part. I frequently stood 
still and hearkened to the one and to the other. 

** Here the scene was properly introduced, ‘The strong declamatory, and, as it were, 
shrieking sound, met the ear from far, and called forth the attention ; the quickly suc- 
ceeding transitions, which necessarily required to be sung in a lower tone, seemed like 
plaintive strains succeeding the vociferations of emotion or of pain. The other, who 
listened attentively, immediately began where the former left off, answering him in milder 
or more vehement notes, according as the purport of the strophe required. The sleepy 
canals, the lofty buildings, the splendour of the moon, the deep shadows of the few gon- 
dolas that moved hke spirits hither and thither, increased the striking peculiarity of the 
scene ; and, amidst all these circumstances, it was easy to confess the character of this 
wonderful harmony. 

τ Τῷ suits perfectly well with an idle, solitary mariner, lying at length in his vessel at 
rest on one of these canals, waiting for his company, or for a fare, the tiresomeness of 
which situation is somewhat alleviated by the songs and poetical stories he has in memo- 
ry. He often raises his voice as loud as he can, which extends itself to a vast distance 
over the tranquil mirror, and as all is still around, he is, as it were, in a solitude in the 
midst of a large and populous town. Here is no rattling of carriages, no noise of foot 
passengers; a silent gondola clides now and then by him, of which the splashings of the 
oars are scarcely to be heard. 


198 HiSTORICAL NOTES TO 


«Αἴ a distance he hears another, perhaps utterly unknown to him. Melody and 
verse immediately attach the two strangers ; he becomes the responsive echo to tle 
former, and exerts himself to be heard as he had heard the other. By a tacit con- 
vention they alternate verse for verse ; though the song should last the whole night 
through, they entertain themselves without fatigue: the hearers, who are passing be- 
tween the two, take part in the amusement. 

“ This vocal performance sounds best at a great distance, and is then inexpressibly 
charming, as it only fulfils its design in the sentiment of remoteness. [{ is plaintive, 
but not dismal in its sound, and at times it is scarcely possible to refrain from tears. 
My companion, who otherwise was not a very delicately organised person, said quite 
cate reper : Esingolare come quel canto intenerisce, e molto pil quando lo cantano 
meglio. 

fT was told that the women of Libo, the long row of islands that divides the Adri- 
atic from the Lagoons,* particularly the women of the extreme districts of Mala- 
mocco and Palestrina, sing in like manner the works of Tasso to these and simuar 
tunes. 

‘© They have the custom, when their husbands are fishing out at sea, to sit along 
the shore in the evenings and vociferate these songs, and continue to do so with great 
violence, till each of them can distinguish the responses of her own husband at a dis- 
tance.” Ἶ 

The lee of music and of poetry distinguishes all classes of Venetians, even amongst 
the tuneful sons of Italy. ‘The city itself can occasionally furnish respectable audi- 
ences for two and even three opera-houses at a time ; and there are few events in 
private life that do not cail forth a printed and circulated sonnet. Does a physician 
or a lawyer take his degree, or a cris preach his maiden sermon, has a surgeon 
performed an operation, would a harlequin announce his departure or his benefit, are 
you to be congratulated on a marriage, or a birth, or a lawsuit, the Muses are invoked 
to furnish the same number of syllables, and the individual triumphs blaze abroad in 
virgin white or party-coloured placards on half the corners of the capital. The last 
curtsy of a favourite “ prima donna” brings down a shower of these poetical tri- 
butes from those upper regions, from which, in our theatres, nothing but cupids and 
snow-storms are accustomed to descend. There is a poetry in the very life of a 
Venetian, which, in its common course, is varied with those surprises and changes 
so recommendable in fiction, but so different from the sober monotony of northern ex- 
istence ; amusements are raised into duties, duties are softened into amusements, and 
every object being considered as equally making a part of the business of life, is an- 
nounced and performed with the same earnest indifference and gay assiduity. The 
Venetian gazette constantly closes its columns with the following triple advertise- 
ment :— 


Charade. 


Exposition of the most Holy Sacrament in the church of St. —— 


Theatres. 
St. Moses, opera. 
St. Benedict, a comedy of characters. 
St. Luke, repose. 


When tt is recollected what the Catholics believe their consecrated wafer to be, 
we may perhaps think it worthy of a more respectable niche than between poetry and 
the playhouse. 


a 


* The writer meant Lido, which is not along row of islands, but a long island : 
littus, the shore. 

+ Curiosities of Literature, vol. ii. p. 156, edit. 1807 ; and Appendix xxix. to Black’s 
Life of Tasso. 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 199 


II. 
THE LION AND HORSES OF ST. MARK’S. 


‘* St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 
Stand,” 


Stanza xi, line 5. 


The hon has lost nothing by his journey to the Invalides but the gospel which sup- 
ported the paw that is now on a level with the other foot. The Horses also are re- 
turned to the ill-chosen spot whence they set out, and are, as before, half hidden under 
the porch of St. Mark’s church. 

Their history, after a desperate struggle, has been satisfactorily explored. The 
decisions and doubts of Erizzo and Zanetti, and lastly, of the Count Leopold Cicog- 
nara, would have given them a Roman extraction, and a pedigree not more ancient 
than the reign of Nero. But M. de Schlegel stepped in to teach the Venetians the 
value of their own treasures, and a Greek vindicated, at last and for ever, the preten- 
sion of his countrymen to this noble production.* M. Mustoxidi has not been lefi 
without a reply; but, as yet, he has received no answer. It should seem that the 
horses are irrevocably Chian, and were transferred to Constantinople by Theodosius. 
Lapidary writing is a favourite play of the Italians, and has conferred reputation on 
more than one of their literary characters. One of the best specimens of Bodoni’s 
typography is a respectable volume of inscriptions, all written by his friend Pacci- 
audi, Several were prepared for the recovered horses. It is to be hoped the best 
was not selected, when the following words were ranged in gold letters ahove the 
cathedral porch : — 


QUATUOR * EQUORUM ° SIGNA ° A * VENETIS * BYZANTIO * CAPTA * AD* TEMP " 
D*MAR*A*R*S‘* MCCIV*’ POSITA*’ QU * HOSTILIS * CUPIDITAS * MDCCIIIC " 
ABSTULERAT * FRANC °I*° IMP* PACIS* ORBI* DATZ * TROPHEZUM ‘A * MDCCCXYV* 
VICTO * REDUXIT. 


Nothing shall be said of the Latin, but it may be permitted to observe, that the in- 
justice of the Venetians in transporting the horses from Constantinople was at least 
equal to that of the French in carrying them to Paris, and that it would have been 
more prudent to have avoided all allusions to either robbery. An apostolic prince 
should, perhaps, have objected to affixing over the principal entrance of a metropolitan 
church an inscription having a reference to any other triumphs than those of religion. 
Nothing less than the pacification of the world can excuse such a solecism. 


FY, 
SUBMISSION OF PBARBAROSSA TO POPE ALEXANDER III. 


“ The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — 
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt.” 


Stanza xi. lines 1 and 2, 


After many vain efforts on the part of the Italians entirely to throw off the yoke of 
Frederic Barbarossa, and as fruitless attempts of the Emperor to make himself abso- 
lute master throughout the whole of his Cisalpine dominions, the bloody struggles of 
four and twenty years were happily brought to a close in the city of Venice. The 
articles of a treaty had been previously agreed upon between Pope Alexander IIT. 
and Barbarossa ; and the former having received a safe-conduct, had already arrived 


—————— “ἕ“ἵἴ“ἵἝὝ“ΤἝὙἿ Ἶ ὁ ὁὁἜὦἜἾἝ ὁ ἷἐἝὁ ὃ ὁ ὁ ὁὦὋὦὋὦὋὁὃὮὌὥἣ ὁ δδ}07᾽,᾽ 


* Su i quattro cavalli della Basilica di 55. Marco in Venezia, Lettera di Andrea 
Mustoxidi Corcirese, Padua, per Bettoni e compag. .. . 1816, 


200 HISTORICAL NOTES TO 


at Venice from Ferrara, in company with the ambassadors of the king of Sicily and 
the consuls of the Lombard league. There still remained, however, many points to 
adjust, and for several days the peace was believed to be impracticable. At this 
juncture it was suddenly reported that the Emperor had arrived at Chioza, a town 
fifteen miles from the capital, The Venetians rose tumultuously, and insisted upon 
immediately conducting him to the city. The Lombards took the alarm, and de- 
parted towards Treviso. The Pope himself was apprehensive of some disaster if 
#rederic should suddenly advance upon him, but was reassured by the prudence and 
address of Sebastian Ziani, the Doge. Several embassies passed between Chioza 
and the capital, until, at last, the Kmperor, relaxing somewhat of his pretensions, 
‘‘ laid aside his leonine ferocity, and put on the mildness of the lamb.’’* 

On Saturday the 23d of July, in the year 1177, six Venetian Galleys transferred 
rederic, in great pomp, from Chioza to the island of Lido, a mile from Venice. 
larly the next morning the Pope, accompanied by the Sicilian ambassadors, and by 
the envoys of Lombardy, whom he had recalled from the main land, together with a 
great concourse of people, repaired from the patriarchal palace to St. Mark’s church, 
and solemnly absolved the Emperor and his partisans from the excommunication pro- 
nounced against him. The Chancellor of the Empire, on the part of his master, 
renounced the anti-popes and their schismatic adherents. Immediately the Doge, 
with a great suite both of the clergy and laity, got on board the galleys, and waiting on 
Frederic, rowed him in mighty state from the Lido to the capital. ‘The Emperor 
descended from the galley at the quay of the Piazzetta. The Doge, the patriarch, 
his bishops and clergy, and the people of Venice with their crosses and their stand- 
ards, marched in solemn procession before him to the church of Saint Mark. Alex- 
ander was seated before the vestibule of the basilica, attended by his bishops and car- 
dinals, by the patriarch of Aquileja, by the archbishops and bishops of Lombardy, al! 
of them in state, and clothed in their church robes. Frederic approached —“ moved 
by the Holy Spirit, venerating the Almighty in the person of Alexander, laying aside 
his imperial dignity, and throwing off his mantle, he prostrated himself at full length 
at the feet of the Pope. Alexander, with tears in his eyes, raised him benignantly 
from the ground, kissed him, blessed him; and immediately the Germans of the train 
sang, with aloud voice, ‘ We praise thee, O Lord.’ The Emperor then taking the 
Pope by the right hand, led him to the church, and having received his benediction, 
returned to the ducal palace.”{ The ceremony of humiliation was repeated the next 
day. The Pope himself, at the request of Frederic, said mass at St. Mark’s. The 
Emperor again laid aside his imperial mantle, and, taking a wand in his hand, offici- 
ated as verger, driving the laity from the choir, and preceding the pontiff to the altar. 
Alexander, after recitmg the gospel, preached to the people. The Emperor put him- 
self close to the pulpit-in the attitude of listening ; and the pontiff, touched by this 
mark of his attention, (for he knew that Frederic did not understand a word he said) 
commanded the patriarch of Aquileja to translate the Latin discourse into the German 
tongue. ‘The creed was then chanted. 'rederic made his oblation, and kissed the 
Pope’s feet, and, mass being over, Jed him by the hand to his white horse. He held 
the stirrup, and would have led the horse’s rein to the water side, had not the Pope 
accepted of the inclination for the performance, and affectionately dismissed him with 
his benediction. Such is the substance of the account left by the archbishop of Sa- 
lerno, who was present at the ceremony, and whose story is confirmed by every sub- 
sequent narration. It would not be worth so minute a record, were it not the triumph 
of liberty as well as of superstition. ‘The states of Lombardy owed to it the confir- 
mation of their privileges ; and Alexander had reason to thank the Almighty, who 
had enabled an infirm, unarmed old man, to subdue a terrible and potent sovereign. 


* “ Quibus auditis, imperator, operante eo, qui corda principum sicut vult et quando 
vult humiliter inclinat, leonina feritate deposita, ovinam mansuetudinem induit.” Ro- 
mualdi Salernitani Chronicon. apud Script. Rer. Ital. Tom. VII. p. 229. 


t Ibid. p. 231. 


{ See the above-cited Romualdof Salerga, IA ἃ second sermon which Alexander 
preached, on the first day of August, before the Emperor, he compared Frederic to 
the prodigal son, and himself to the forgiving father. . 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 201 


We 
HENRY DANDOLO. 


** Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! 
Th’ octogenarian chief, Byzantium’s conquering foe.” 


‘Stanza xii. lines 8 and 9. 


‘he reader will recollect the exclamation of the highlander, Oh for one hour of 
Jundee ! Henry Dandolo, when elected Doge, in 1192, was eighty-five years of age. 
When he commanded the Venetians at the taking of Constantinople, he was conse- 
quently ninety-seven years old. At this age he annexed the fourth and a half of the 
whole empire of Romania,* for so the Roman empire was then called, to the title 
and to the territories of the Venetian Doge. The three eighths of this empire were 
preserved in the diplomas until the dukedom of Giovanni Dolfino, who made use of 
the above designation in the year 1357.T 

Dandolo led the attack on Constantinople in person: two ships, the Paradise and 
the Pilgrim, were tied together, and a drawbridge or ladder let down from their higher 
yards to the walls. The Doge was one of the first to rush into the city. Then was 
completed, said the Venetians, the prophecy of the Erythraan sibyl:— A gathenng 
together of the powerful shall be made amidst the waves of the Adriatic, under a blind 
leader; they shall beset the goat— they shall profane Byzantium — they shall 
blacken her buildmgs —her spoils shall be dispersed; a new goat shall bleat until 
they have measured out and run over fifty-four feet, nine inches, and a half.” f 

Dandolo died on the first day of June, 1205, having reigned thirteen years, six 
months, and five days, and was buried in the church of St. Sophia, at Constanti- 
nople. Strangely enough it must sound, that the name of the rebel apothecary who 
received the Doge’s sword, and annihilated the ancient government, in 1796-7, was 
Jandolo. 


VE 
THE WAR OF CHIOZA. 


‘6 Bui is not Doria’s menace come to pass ? 
Are they not bridled 2?” 
Stanza xui. lines 3 and 4. 


After the loss of the battle of Pola, and the taking of Chioza on the 16thof August, 
1379, by the united armament of the Genoese and Francesco da Carrara, Signor of 
Padua, the Venetians were reduced to the utmost despair, An embassy was sent 


4 

* Mr. Gibbon has omitted the important @, and has written Romani instead of 
Romani. Decline and Fall, cap. ixi. note 9. But the title acquired by Dandolo 
runs thus in the chronicle of his namesake, the Doge Andrew Dandolo, ‘ Ducali titulo 
addidit, ‘ Quarte partis et dimidie totius imperti Romanie.’” And. Dand. Chrom- 
con, cap. il. pars xxxvil, ap. Script. Rer. Ital. tom. xi. page 331. And the Ro- 
manize is observed in the subsequent acts of the Doges. Indeed, the continental pos- 
sessions of the Greek empire in Europe were then generally kmown by the name of 
Romania, and that appellation is still seen in the maps of Turkey as applied to 
Thrace. 

ἡ See the continuation of Dandolo’s Chronicle, ibid. page 498. Mr. Gibbon 
appears not to include Dolfino, following Sanudo, who says, ‘‘ il qual totolo si usd fin 
αἱ Doge Giovanni Dolfino.” See Vite de’ Duchi di Venezia, ap. Script. Rer. Lal, 
tom. xxii. 530. 641. 

I Fiet potentium in aquis Adriaticis congregatio, ceco preduce, Hireym amii- 


202 HISTORICAL NOTES TO 


to the conquerors with a blank sheet of paper, praying them to prescribe what terms 
they pleased, and leave to Venice only her independence. The Prince of Padua 
was inclined to listen to these proposals, but the Genoese, who, after the victory at 
Pola, had shouted, " To Venice, to Venice, and long live St. George!” determined to 
annihilate their rival; and Peter Doria, their commander-in-chiet, returned this an- 
swer to the suppliants: ‘‘ On God’s faith, gentlemen of Venice, ye shall have no 
peace from the Signor of Padua, nor from our commune of Genoa, until we have 
first put a rein upon those unbridled horses of yours, that are upon the porch of your 
evangelist St. Mark. When we have bridled them, we shall keep you quiet. And 
this is the pleasure of us and cf our commune. As for these my brothers of Genoa, 
that you have brought with you to give up to us, I will not have them; take them 
back ; for, in a few days hence, I shall come and let them out-of prison myself, both 
these and all the others.””* In fact, the Genoese did advance as far as Malamocco, 
within five miles of the capital; but their own danger and the pride of their enemies 
gave courage to the Venetians, who made prodigious efforts, and many individual 
sacrifices, all of them carefully recorded by their historians. WVettor Pisani was put 
at the head of thirty-four galleys. The Genoese broke up from Malamocco, and re- 
tired to Chioza in October ; but they again threatened Venice, which was reduced 
to extremities. At this time, the Ist of January, 1380, arrived Carlo Zeno, who had 
been cruising on the Genoese coast with fourteen galleys. 'The Venetians were now 
strong enough to besiege the Genoese. Doria was killed on the 22d of January by 
a stone bullet 195 pounds weight, discharged from a bombard called the Trevisan. 
Chioza was then closely mvested : 5000 auxiliaries, among whom were some English 
condottierl, commanded by one Captain Ceccho, joined the Venetians. The Ge- 
noese, in their turn, prayed for conditions, but none were granted, until, at’ last, they 
surrendered at discretion; and, on the 24th of June, 1380, the Doge Contarini made 
his triumphal entry into Chioza. Four thousand prisoners, nineteen galleys, many 
smaller vessels and barks, with all the ammunition and ‘arms, and outfit of the expedi- 
tion, fell into the hands of the conquerors, who, had it not been for the inexorable 
answer of Doria, would have gladly reduced their dominion to the city of Venice. 
An account of these transactions is found in a work called the War of Chioza, writ- 
ten by Daniel Chinazzo, who was in Venice at the time.t 


ΜΠ. 
VENICE UNDER THE GOVERNMENT OF AUSTRIA. 


“ Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
190 oft remind her who and what enthrals.” 


Stanza xv. lines 7 and 8, 


The population of Venice at the end of the seventeenth century amounted to nearly 
two hundred thousand souls. At the last census, taken two years ago, it was ne 
more than about one hundred and three thousand ; and it diminishes daily. The com- 
merce and the official employments, which were to be the unexhausted source of 


Cr ὁ ΠἐΠΠΠΠΠἕΠΠΠΠβ888θθΠ88ΠτττθὃΌὃΌὃΌὃὁ 


gent, Byzantium prophanabunt, cedificia denigrabunt; spolia dispergentur, Hircus 


novus balabit usque dum Liv pedes et 1x pollices, et semis preemensurati discur- 
rant.’? — Chronicon, ibid. pars XXxiv. 


* “ Alla (δ di Dio, Signori Veneziani, non haverete mai pace dal Signore di Pa- 
doua, né dal nostro commune di Genova, se primieramente non mettemo le briglie a 
quelli vostri cavalli sfrenati, che sono su la reza del vostro Evangelista S. Marco. 
Imbrenati che gli havremo, vi faremo stare in buona pace. E questa e la intenzione 
nostra, e del nostrocommune. Questi miei fratelli Genovesi che havete menati con 
voi per donarci, non li yoglio; rimanetegli in dietro perche io intendo da qui a pochi 
giornt venirgli a riscuoter, dalle yostre prigioni, e loro e gli altri.” 


is aoe della Guerra di Chioza,” &c. Script. Rer. Italic. tom. xv. pp. 699 
ο 804. ; 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 203 


Venetian grandeur, have both expired.* Most of the patrician mansions are deserted, 
and would gradually disappear, had not the government, alarmed by the demolition 
of seventy-two, during the last two years, expressly forbidden this sad resource of 
poverty. Many remnants of the Venetian nobility are now scattered, and confoundea 
with the wealthier Jews upon the banks of the Brenta, whose Palladian palaces have 
sunk, or are sinking, in the general decay. Of the “ gentiluomo Veneto,” the name 
is still known, and that is all. He is but the shadow of his former self, but he is 
polite and kind. It surely may be pardoned to him if he is querulous, Whatever 
may have been the vices of the republic, and although the natural term of its exist- 
ence may be thought by foreigners to have arrived in the due course of mortality, 
only one sentiment can be expected from the Venetians themselves. At no time 
were the subjects of the republic so unanimous m their resol'ition to rally round the 
standard of St. Mark, as when it was for the last time unfurled; and the cowardice 
and the treachery of the few patricians who recommended the fatal neutrality were 
confined to the persons of the traitors themselves. The present race cannot be 
thought to regret the loss of their aristocratical forms and too despotic government ; 
they think only on their vanished independence. They pine away at the remem- 
brance, and on this subject suspend for a moment their gay good humour. Venice 
may be said, in the words of the Scripture, ‘ to die daily ;” and so general and so 
apparent is the decline, as to become painful to a stranger, not reconciled to the 
sight of a whole nation expiring as it were before his eyes. So artificial a cre- 
ation, having lost that principle which called it into life and supported its existence, 
must fall to pieces at once, and sink more rapidly than it rose. The abhorrence 
of slavery which drove the Venetians to the sea, has, since their disaster, forced 
them to the land, where they may be at least overlooked amongst the crowd of 
dependants, and not present the humiliating spectacle of a whole nation loaded 
with recent chains. Their liveliness, their affability, and that happy indifference 
which constitution alone can give (for philosophy aspires to it in vain) have not 
sunk under circumstances; but many peculiarities of costume and manner have by 
degrees been lost, and the nobles, with a pride common to all Italians who have 
been masters, have not been persuaded to parade their insignificance. That splen- 
dour which was a proof and a portion of their power, they would not degrade into 
the trappings of their subjection. ‘They retired from the space which they had 
occupied in the eyes of their fellow-citizens; their continuance in which would 
have been a symptom of acquiescence, and an insult to those who suffered by the 
common misfortune. Those who remained in the degraded capital might be said 
rather to haunt the scenes of their departed power, than to live in them. The 
reflection, ‘‘ who and what enthrals,” will hardly bear a comment from one who 
is, nationally, the friend and the ally of the conqueror. It may, however, be al- 
lowed to say thus much, that to those who wish to recover their independence, 
any masters must be an object of detestation; and it may be safely foretold that 
this unprofitable aversion will not have been corrected before Venice shall have 
sunk into the slime of her choked canals. 


* “ Nonnullorum ὃ nobilitate immense sunt opes, adeo ut vix estimari possint : id 
quod tribus ἃ rebus oritur, parsimonia, commercio, atque iis emolumentis, que ὃ 
Repub. percipiunt, que hanc ob causam diuturna fore creditur,’? — See de Principa- 
libus Italie, Tractatus, edit. 1631, ; 


204 HISTORICAL NOTES TO 


Vill. 
LAURA. 


“* Watering the tree which bears his lady’s name 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame.” 


Stanza xxx. lines 8 and 9. 


Thanks to the critical acumen of a Scotchman, we now know as little of Laura as 
ever.* The discoveries of the Abbé de Sade, his triumphs, his sneers, can no longer 
instruct or amuse.{ We must not, however, think that these memoirs are as much 
a romance as Belisarius or the Incas, although we are told so by Dr. Beattie, a 
great name, but a little authority.{ His “ labour” has not been im vain, notwith- 
standing his “‘ love” has, like most other passions, made him ridiculous. The 
hypothesis which overpowered the struggling Italians, and carried along less inte- 
rested critics in its current, is run out. We have another proof that we can be never 
sure that the paradox, the most singular, and therefore having the most agreeable 
and authentic air, will not give place to the re-established ancient prejudice. 

It seems, then, first, that Laura was bom, lived, died, and was buried, not in Avig- 
non, but in the country. The fountains of the Sorga, the thickets of Cabrieres, may 
resume their pretensions, and the exploded de la Bastie again be heard with comple- 
cency. The hypothesis of the Abbé had no stronger props than the parchment 
sonnet and medal found on the skeleton of the wife of Hugo de Sade, and the 
manuscript note to the Virgil of Petrarch, now in the Ambrosian library. If these 
proofs were both incontestable, the poetry was written, the medal composed, cast, 
and deposited within the space of twelve hours: and these deliberate duties were 
performed round the carcass of one who died of the plague, and was hurried to the 
grave on the day of her death. These documents, therefore, are too decisive: they 
prove not the fact, but the forgery. Either the sonnet or the Virgilian note must be 
a falsification. The Abbé cites bothas incontestably true; the consequent deduction 
is inevitable — they are both evidently false. || 

Secondly, Laura was never married, and was a haughty virgin rather than that 
tender and prudent wife who honoured Avignon by making that town the theatre of 
an honest French passion, and played off for one and twenty years her little ma- 
chinery of alternate favours and refusals {| upon the first poet of the age. It was, 
iced: rather too unfair that a female should be made responsible for eleven children 
upon the faith of a misinterpreted abbreviation, and the decision of a librarian.** It 


* See an Historical and Critical Essay on the Life and Character of Petrarch; 
and a Dissertation on an Historical Hypothesis of the Abbé de Sade: the first ap- 
peared about the year 1784; the other is inserted in the fourth volume of the Trans- 
actions of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, and both have been incorporated into a 
work, published, under the first title, by Ballantyne in 1810. 

{ Mémoires pour la Vie di Pétrarque. 

{ Life of Beattie, by Sir W. Forbes, t. i. p. 106. 

§ Mr. Gibbon called his Memoirs “ α labour of love,” (see Decline and Fall, cap. 
Ixx. note 1.) and followed him with confidence and delight. The compiler of a very 
voluminous work must take much criticism upon trust; Mr. Gibbon has done so, 
though not as readily as some other authors. 

|| The sonnet had before awakened the suspicions of Mr. Horace Walpole. 
See his letter to Wharton in 1763. 

7 ‘ Par ce petit manéye, cette alternative de faveurs et de rigueurs bien mé- 
nagée, une femme tendre et sage amuse, pendant vingt et un ans, le plus grand 
poéte de son siécle, sans faire la moindre bréche ἃ son honneur.”” Mém. pour la 
Vie de Pétrarque, Preface aux Frangois. The Italian editor of the London edition 
of Petrarch, who has translated Lerd Woodhouselee, renders the “ femme tendre et 
sage,” raffinata civetta.”” Riflessioni intorno a madonna Laura, p. 234, vol. 111. ed. 
1811. 

** In a dialogue with St. Augustin, Petrarch has described Laura as having a 
body exhausted with repeated ptubs. The old editors read and printed perturbationi- 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 205 


is, however, satisfactory to think that the love of Petrarch was not platonic, The 
happiness which he prayed to possess but once and for a moment was surely not 
of the mind,* and something so very real as a marriage project, with one who has 
been idly called a shadowy nymph, may be, perhaps, detected in at least six places 
of his own sonnets.{ ‘The love of Petrarch was neither platonic nor poetical ; and 
if in one passage of his works he calls it ‘‘ amore veementeissimo ma unico ed 
onesto,” he confesses, in a letter to a friend, that it was guilty and perverse, that it 
absorbed him quite, and mastered his heart.{ 

In this case, however, he was perhaps alarmed for the culpability of his wishes ; 
for the Abbé de Sade himself, who certainly would not have been scrupulously delicate 
if he could have proved his descent from Petrarch as weil as Laura, is forced into ἃ 
stout defence of his virtuous grandmother. As far as relates to the poet, we have no 
security for the innocence, except perhaps in the constancy of his pursuit. He as- 
sures us in his epistle to posterity, that, when arrived at his fortieth year, he not only 
had in horror, but had lost all recollection and image of any “‘irregularity.””§ But the 
birth of his natural daughter cannot be assigned earlier than his thirty-ninth year ; and 
either the memory or the morality of the poet must have failed him, when he forgot or 
was guilty of this slzp.|| The weakest argument for the purity of this love has been 
drawn from the permanence of its effects, which survived the object of his passion, 
The reflection of M. de la Bastie, that virtue alone is capable of making impressions 
which death cannot efface, is one of those which every body applauds, and every 
body finds not to be true, the moment he examines his own breast or the records of 
human feeling.f/ Such apophthegms can do nothing for Petrarch or for the cause 
of morality, except with the very weak and the very young. He that has made even 
a little progress beyond ignorance and pupilage cannot be edified with any thing but 
truth. What is called vindicating the honour of an individual or a nation, is the most 
futile, tedious, and uninstructive of all writing ; although it will always meet with 
more applause than that sober criticism, which is attributed to the malicious desire 
of reducing a great man to the common standard of humanity. It is, after all, not 
unlikely, that our historian was right in retaining his favourite hypothetic salvo, which 
secures the author, although it scarcely saves the honour of the still unknown mis- 
tress of Petrarch.** 


bus ; but M. Capperonier, librarian to the French king in 1792, who saw the MS. 
in the Paris library, made an attestation that ‘‘on lit et qu’on doit lire, partubus 
exhaustum.” De Sade joined the names of Messrs. Boudot and Bejot with M. 
Capperonier, and in the whole discussion on this ptubs, showed himself a downright 
literary rogue. See Riflessioni, &c. p. 267. Thomas Aquinas is called into settle 
whether Petrarch’s mistress was a chaste maid or a continent wife. 


* “ Pjomalion, quanto lodar ti dei 
Dell’ imagine tua, se mille volte 
N’ avesti quel ch’ ?’ sol una vorrei.” 
Sonetto 58, quando giunse a Simon Valto concetto. 


Le Rime, &c. par. i. pag. 189, edit. Ven. 1756. 
ἡ See Riflessioni, &c. p. 291. 


Τ ‘* Quella rea e perversa passione che solo tutto mi occupava e mi regnava nel 
7) 
cuore. 


§ ‘* Azion dishonesta” are his words. 


\| “A questa confessione cosi sincera diede forse occasione una nuova caduta ch’ 
ei fece.”’, Tiraboschi, Storia, &c. tom. v. lib. iv. par. ἢ. pag. 492. 


7 “Il n’y a que la vertu seule qui soit capable de faire des impressions que la 
mort n’efface pas.””, M. de Bimard, Baron de la Bastie, in the Mémoires de lAca- 
démie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres for 1740 and 1751. See also Riflessioni, 
ὅτε. p. 295. 


* * “ And ifthe virtue or prudence of Laura was inexorable, he enjoyed, and 
inight boast οἵ enjoying, the nymph of poetry.” Decline and Fall, cap. ἰχχ. p. 327. 
vol, xii. 8vo. Perhaps the if is here meant for although. 


206 HISTORICAL NOTES TO 


1X. 
PETRARCH. 


“© They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died.” 
Stanza xxxi. line 1. 


Petrarch retired to Arqua immediately on his return from the unsuccessful attempt 
to visit Urban V. at Rome, in the year 1370, and, with the exception of his celebrated 
visit to Venice, in company with Francesco Novello da Carrara, he appears to have 
passed the four last years of his life between that charming solitude and Padua. 
For four months previous to his death he was in a state of continual languor, and in 
the morning of July the 19th, in the year 1374, was found dead in his library chair 
with his head resting upon a book. The chair is still shown amongst the precious 
relics of Arqua, which, from the uninterrupted veneration that has been attached to 
every thing relative to this great man from the moment of his death to the present 
hour, have, it may be hoped, a better chance of authenticity than the Shakspearian 
memorials of Stratford-upon-Avon, 

Arqua (for the last syllable is accented in pronunciation, although the analogy of 
the English language has been observed in the verse) is twelve miles from Padua, 
and about three miles on the right of the high road to Rovigo, in the bosom of the 
Euganean hills. After a walk of twenty minutes across a flat well-wooded meadow, 
you come to a little blue lake, clear, but fathomless, and to the foot of a succession of 
acclivities and hills, clothed with vineyards and orchards, rich with fir and pome- 
granate trees, and every sunny fruit shrub. From the banks of the lake the road 
winds into the hills, and the church of Arqua is soon seen between a cleft where two 
ridges slope towards each other, and nearly enclose the village. The houses are 
scattered at intervals on the steep sides of these summits ; and that of the poet is on 
the edge of a little knoll overlooking two descents, and commanding a view, not only 
of the glowing gardens in the dales immediately beneath, but of the wide plains, above 
whose low woods of mulberry and willow, thickened into a dark mass by festoons of 
vines, tall single cypresses, and the spires of towns, are seen in the distance, which 
stretches to the mouths of the Po and the shores of the Adriatic. The climate of 
these volcanic hills is warmer, and the vintage begins a week sooner than in the 
plains of Padua. Petrarch is laid, for he cannot be said to be buried, in a sarcopha- 
gus of red marble, raised on four pilasters on an elevated base, and preserved from 
an association with meaner tombs. It stands conspicuously alone, but will be soon 
overshadowed by four lately planted laurels. Petrarch’s Fountain, for here every 
thing is Petrarch’s, springs and expands itself beneath an artificial arch, a little below 
the church, and abounds plentifully, in the driest season, with that soft water which 
was the ancient wealth of the Euganean hills. It would be more attractive, were 
it not, in some seasons, beset with hornets and wasps. No other coincidence could 
assimilate the tombs of Petrarch and Archilochus. The revolutions of centuries 
have spared these seyuestered valleys, and the only violence which has been offered 
to the ashes of Petrarch was prompted, not by hate, but veneration. An attempt 
was made to rob the sarcophagus of its treasure, and one of the arms was stolen 
by a Florentine through a rent which is still visible. The injury is not forgotten, but 
has served to identify the poet with the country where he was born, but where he 
would not live. A peasant boy of Arqua being asked who Petrarch was, replied, 
τ that the people of the parsonage knew all about him, but that he only knew that 
he was a Florentine.” 

Mr. Forsyth * was not quite correct in saying that Petrarch never returned to 
Tuscany after he had once quitted it when a boy. It appears he did pass through 
Florence on his way from Parma to Rome, and on his return in the year 1350, and 
remained there long enough to form some acquaintance with its most distinguished 
inhabitants. A Florentine gentleman, ashamed of the aversion of the poet for his 
native country, was eager to point out this trivial error in our accomplished traveller, 
whom he knew and respected for an extraordinary capacity, extensive erudition, and 
‘refined taste, joined to that engaging simplicity of manners which has been so fre- 
quently recognized as the surest, though it is certainly not an indispensable, trait of 
superior genius, 


* Remarks, &c. on Italy, p. 95, note, 2d edit. 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 207 


Every footstep of Laura’s lover has been anxicusly traced and recorded. The 
house in which he lodged is shown in Venice. The inhabitants of Arezzo, in order 
to decide the ancient controversy between their city and the neighbouring Ancisa, 
where Petrarch was carried when seven months old, and Poinainel until his seventh 
year, have designated by a long inscription the spot where their great fellow-citizen 
was born. <A tablet has been raised to him at Parma, in the chapel of St. Agatha, 
at the cathedral,* because he was archdeacon of that society, and was only snatched 
from his intended sepulture in their church by a foreign death. Another tablet with 
a bust, has been erected to himat Pavia, on account of his having passed the autumn 
of 1368 in that city, with his son-in-law Brossano. The political condition which 
has for ages precluded the Italians from the criticism of the living, has concentrated 
their attention to the illustration of the dead. 


2 
TASSO. 


‘© In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire ; 
And Boileau, whose rash envy,” ὅτε. 


Stanza xxxviil. lines 6 and 7, 


Perhaps the couplet in which ‘Boileau depreciates Tasso, may serve as well as 
any other specimen to justify the opinion given of the harmony of French verse : — 


A Malerbe ἃ Racan, préfére Théophile, 
Et le clinquant du Tasse ἃ tout lor de Virgile. | 


Sat. ix. vers. 176. 


The biographer Serassi,} out of tenderness to the reputation either of the Itahan 
or the French poet, is eager to observe that the satirist recanted or explained away 
this censure, and subsequently allowed the author of the Jerusalem to be a ‘‘ genius, 
sublime, vast, and happily born for the higher flights of poetry.” ΤῸ this we will 
add, that the recantation is far from satisfactory, when we examine the whole anec- 
dote as reported by Olivet.{ The sentence pronounced against him by Bohours 


*"DY.O ΝΗ 
Francisco Petrarche 
Parmensi Archidiacono, 
Parentibus preclaris genere perantiquo 
Ethices Christianz scriptori eximio 
Romane linguz restitutori 
Etrusce principl 
Africee ob carmen hic in urbe peractum regibus accito 
S. P.Q. R. laurea donato. é 
Tanti Viri 
Juvenilium juvenis senilium senex 
; Studiosissimus 
Comes Nicolaus Canonicus Cicognarus 
Marmorea proxima ara excitata. 
Ibique condito 
Dive Januariz cruento corpore 
ἘΠ: 
Suffectum 
Sed infra meritum Frrancisci sepulchro 
Summa hac in ede efferri mandantis 
Si Parmze occumberet 
Extera morte heu nobis erepti. 


{ La Vita del Tasso, lib, 111. p. 284, tom. 11. edit. Bergamo, 1790. 


{ Histoire de l’ Académie Francoise, depuis 1652 jusqu’a 1700, par l’ Abbé d’ Olivet. 
p. 181, edit. Amsterdam, 1730. ‘ Mais, ensuite, venant ἃ Pusage qu’il a fait de 


208 HISTORICAL NOTES TO 


is recorded * only to the confusion of the critic, whose palinodia the Italian makes no 
effort to discover, and would not, perhaps, accept. As to the opposition which the 
Jerusalem encountered from the Cruscan academy, who degraded ‘Tasso from all 
competition with Ariosto, below Bojardo and Pulci, the disgrace of such opposition 
must also in some measure be laid to the charge of Alfonso, and the court of Ferrara. 
For Leonard Salviati, the principal and nearly the sole origin of this attack, was, 
there can be no doubt,{ influenced by a hope to acquire the favour of the House of 
Este: an object which he thought attamable by exalting the reputation of a native 
poet at the expense ofa rival, then a prisoner of state. ‘The hopes and efforts of 
Salviati must serve to show the contempcrary opinion as to the nature of the poet’s 
imprisonment; and will fill up the measure of our indignation at the tyrant jailer.} 
In fact, the antogonist of Tasso was not disappointed in the reception given to his 
criticism; he was called to the court of Ferrara, where, having endeavoured to 
heighten his claims to favour, by panegyrics on the family of his sovereign,§ he was 
in turn abandoned, and expired in neglected poverty. The opposition of the Cruscans 
was brought to a close in six years after the commencement of the controversy ; and 
if the academy owed its first renown to having almost opened with such a paradox, || 
it is probable that, on the other hand, the care of his reputation alleviated rather than 

gravated the imprisonment of the injured poet. The defence of his father and οἱ 
himself, for both were involved in the censure of Salviati, found employment for many 
of his solitary hours, and the captive could have been but little embarrassed to reply 
to accusations, where, amongst other delinquencies, he was charged with invidiously 
omitting, in his comparison between France and Italy, to make any mention of the 
cupola of St. Maria del Fiore at Florence.{ The late biographer of Ariosto seems 
as if willing to renew the controversy by doubting the interpretation of Tasso’s self- 
estimation ** related in Serassi’s life of the poet. But Tiraboschi had before laid that 
rivalry at rest, {{ by showing, that between Ariosto and Tasso it is not a question of 
comparison, but of preference. 


ses talens, j’aurois montré que le bon sens n’est pas toujours ce qui domme chez 
lui,” p. 182. Boileau said he had not changed his opinion ; *‘ J’en ai si peu changé, 
dit-il,’ &c. p. 181. 


* La maniére de bien penser dans les ouvrages de l’esprit, sec, dial. p. 89, edit. 
1692. Philanthes is for Tasso, and says, in the outset, ‘‘ de tous les beaux esprits 
que l’Italie a portés, le Tasse est peut-étre celui qui pense le plus noblement.” But 
Bohours seems to speak in Eudoxus, who closes with the absurd comparison: ‘* Faites 
valoir le T'asse tant qu’il vous plaira, je m’en tiens pour moi ἃ Virgile,” &c. Ibid. 
p. 102. 


{ La Vita, &c. lib. iii. p. 90, tom. 11.. The English reader may see an account 
of the opposition of the Crusca to Tasso, in Dr. Black, Life, &c. cap, xvii. vol. 11. 


{ For further, and, it is hoped, decisive proof, that Tasso was neither more nor 
less than a@ prisoner of state, the reader is referred to “ Historical Illustrations of the 
TVth Canto of Childe Harold,” pag. 5. and following. 


§ Orazioni funebri.. . delle lodi di Don Luigi, Cardinal d’Este. . . delle lodi di 
Donno Alfonso d’Este. See La Vita, lib. ii. p. 117. 


|| It was founded in 1582, and the Cruscan answer to Pellegrino’s Caraffa, or epica 
poesia, was published in 1584. ᾿ Υ 


q- “ Cotanto pote sempre in lui il veleno della sua pessima volonta contro alla na- 
zion Fiorentina.” La Vita, lib, iii. pp. 96, 98. tom. il. 


** La Vita di M. L. Ariosto, seritta dall’ Abate Girolamo Barofaldi Giuniovre, 
&c, Ferrara, 1807, lib. iii. p. 262. See Historical Illustrations, &c. p. 26. 


tf Storia della Lett. ἔσο. lib. 111. tom. vii. par. ili. p. 1220, sect. 4. 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 209 


ΕΙΣ 
ARIOSTO. 


. * The lightning rent from Ariosto’s bust, : 
“~The iron crown of laurel’s mimick’d leaves.” : 


Stanza xli. lines 1 and 2, 


Before the remains of Ariosto were removed from the Benedictine church to the 
fibrary of Ferrara, his bust, which surmounted the tomb, was struck by lightning, and 
a crown of iron laurels melted away. The event has been recorded by a writer of the 
last century.* The transfer of these sacred ashes, on the 6th of June, 1801, was one 
of the most brilliant spectacles of the short-lived lialian Republic; and to consecrate 
the memory of the ceremony, the once famous fallen Jntrepidi were revived and re- 
formed into the Ariostean academy. ‘The large public place through which the pro- 
cession paraded was then for the first time called Ariosto Square. ‘The author of the 
Orlando is jealously claimed as the Homer, not of Italy, but Ferrara.t The mother 
of Ariosto was of Reggio, and the house in which he was born is carefully distin- 
guished by a tablet with these words: ‘* Qui nacque Ludovico Ariosto il giorno 8 di 
Settembre dell’ anno 1474.” But the Ferrarese make light of the accident by which 
their poet was born abroad, and claim him exclusively for their own. They possess 
his bones, they show his arm-chair, and his inkstand, and his autographs. 


Ore teaecee Stele) Wlusiiema 


hie cunrus “πο 027 


The house where he lived, the room where he died, are designated by his own re- 
placed memorial,{ and by a recent inscription, The Ferrarese are more jealous of 
their claims since the animosity of Denina, arising from a cause which their apolo- 
gists mysteriously hint is not unknown to them, ventured to degrade their soil and cli- 
mate to a Beeotian incapacity for all spiritual productions. A quarto volume has been 
called forth by the detraction, and this supplement to Barotti’s Memoirs of the illustri- 
ous Ferrarese has been considered a triumphant reply to the ‘‘ Quadro Storico Statis- 
tico dell’ Alta Italia.” 


XII. 
ANCIENT SUPERSTITIONS RESPECTING LIGHTNING. 


“ For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves.” 


Stanza xli. lines 4 and 5. 


The eagle, the sea calf, the laurel,§ and the white vine,|| were amongst the most 
approved preservatives against lightning: Jupiter chose the first, Augustus Caesar the 
second,/ and Tiberius never failed to wear a wreath of the third when the sky threat- 


* ‘¢ Mi raccontarono que’ monaci, ch’ essendo caduto wn fulmine nella loro chiesa 
schiantd esso dalle tempie la corona di lauro a quell’ immortale poeta.” Op. di Bian- 
coni, vol. iii. p. 176, ed. Milano, 1802 ; lettera al Signor Guido Savini Arcifisiocritico, 
sull’ indole di un fulmine caduto in Dresda |’anno 1759. 

t ‘ Appassionata ammiratore ed invitto apologista dell’ Omera Ferrarese.” The 
title was first given by Tasso, and is quoted to the confusion of the T'assisti, lib. in. 
pp. 262. 265 La Vita di M. L. Ariosto, &c. 

t ἐς Parva sed apta mihi, sed nulli obnoxia, sed non 
Sordida, parta meo sed tamen wre domus.” 

ὃ Aquila, vitulus marinus, et laurus, fulmine non feriuntur, Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. 
1. cap. 95. 

|| Columella, lib. x. 1 Sueton. in Vit, August. cap. xe. 


VOL. III.—P 


210 HISTORICAL NOTES TO 


ened a thunder-storm.* These superstitions may be received without a sneer ina 
country where the magical properties of the hazel twig have not lost all their credit ; 
and perhaps the reader may not be much surprised to find that a commentator on 
Suetonius has taken upon himself gravely to disprove the imputed virtues of the crown 
of Tiberius, by mentioning that a few years before he wrote a laurel was actually 
struck by lightning at Rome.{ 


XIII. 


“ Know that the lightning sanctifies below.” 
Stanza xli. line 8. 


The Curtian lake and the Ruminal fig-tree in the Forum, having been touched by 
lightning, were held sacred, and the memory of the accident was preserved by a puteat. 
or altar resembling the mouth of a well, with a little chapel covering the cavity sup- 
posed to be made by the thunderbolt Bodies scathed and persons struck dead were 
thought to be incorruptible ;{ and a stroke not fatal conferred perpetual dignity upon 
the man so distinguished by heaven.§ 

Those killed by lightning were wrapped in a white garment, and buried where they 
fell. The superstition was not confined to the worshippers of Jupiter: the Lombards 
believed in the omens furnished by lightning, and a Christian priest confesses that, by 
a diabolical skill in interpreting thunder, a seer foretold to Agilulf, duke of Turi, an 
event which came to pass, and gave him a queen and acrown.|| There was, how- 
ever, something equivocal in this sign, which the ancient inhabitants of Rome did not 
always consider propitious ; and as the fears are likely to last longer than the conso- 
lations of superstition, it is not strange that the Romans of the age of Leo X. should 
have been so much terrified at some misinterpreted storms as to require the exhor- 
tations of a scholar, who arrayed all the learning on thunder and lightning to prove 
the omen favourable ; beginning with the flash which struck the walls of Velitra, and 
including that which played upon a gate at Florence, and foretold the pontificate of 
one of lis citizens. 


XIV. 
THE VENUS OF MEDICIS. 


“ There, too, the Goddess loves in stone.” 
Stanza xlix, line I. 


The view of the Venus of Medicis instantly suggests the lines in the Seasons, and 
the comparison of the object with the description proves not only the correctness of 
the portrait, but the peculiar turn of thought, and, if the term may be used, the sexual 

- imagination of the descriptive poet. The same conclusion may be deduced from 
another hint in the same episode of Musidora; for Thomson’s notion of the privi- . 


* Sueton. in Vit. Tiberi, cap. lxix. Ἷ Note 2. p. 409. edit. Lugd, Bat. 1667. 

{ Vid. J. C. Bullenger, de Terre Motu et Fulminib. lib. v. cap. ΧΙ. 

§ ’Ovdeis κεραυνωθεὶς aripds ἐστι, ὅθεν καὶ ὡς Seds τιμᾶται. Plut. Sympos. vid. J. 
C. Bulleng. ut sup. 

|| Pauli Diaconi, de Gestis Langobard. lib. 111. cap. xiv. fo. 15. edit. Taurin. 1527. 


Y I. P. Valeriani de fulminum significationibus declamatio, ap. Grey. Antiq. 
Rom. tom, v. p. 593. The declamation 1s addressed to Julian of Medicis. 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 211 


leges of favoured love must have been either very primitive, or rather deficient 1) 
delicacy, when he made his grateful nymph inform her discreet Damon that in some 
happier moment he might, perhaps, be the companion of her bath: — 


“ The time may come you need not fly.” 


The reader will recollect the anecdote told in the Life of Dr. Johnson. We will not 
leave the Florentine gallery without a word on the Whetter. It seems strange ihat 
the character of that disputed statue should not be entirely decided, at least in the 
mind of any one who has seen a sarcophagus in the vestibule of the Basilica of St. 
Paul without the walls, at Rome, where the whole group of the fable of Marsyas 15 
seen in tolerable preservation; and the Scythian slave whetting the knife is repre- 
sented exactly in the same position as this celebrated masterpiece. ‘The slave is not 
naked ; but it is easier to get rid of this difficulty than to suppose the knife in the 
hand of the Florentine statue an instrument for shaving, which it must be, if, as 
Lanzi supposes, the man is no other than the barber of Julius Cesar. Winkelmann, 
illustrating a bas relief of the same subject, follows the opinion of Leonard Agostini, 
and his authority might have been thought conclusive, even if the resemblance did 
not strike the most careless observer. * 

Amongst the bronzes of the same princely collection is still to be seen the inseribed 
tablet copied and commented upon by Mr. Gibbon.f Our historian found some diffi- 
culties, but did not desist from his illustration: he might be vexed to hear that his 
criticism has been thrown away on an inscription now generally recognised to be a 
forgery. 


XV. 
MADAME DE STAEL. 


“ In Santa Croce’s holy precincts lee.” 
Stanza liv. line 1. 


This name will recall the memory, not only of those whose tombs have raised the 
Santa Croce into the centre of pilgrimage, the Mecca of Italy, but of her whose 
eloquence was poured over the illustrious ashes, and whose voice is now as mute as 
those she sung, CoRINNA is no more; and with her should expire the fear, the 
flattery, and the envy, which threw too dazzling or too dark a cloud round the march 
of genius, and forbad the steady gaze of disinterested criticism. _We have her 
picture embellished or distorted, as friendship or detraction has held the pencil: the 
impartial portrait was hardly to be expected from a contemporary. The immediate 
voice of her survivors will, it is probable, be far from affording a just estimate of her 
singular capacity. The gallantry, the love of wonder, and the hope of associated 
fame, which blunted the edge of censure, must cease to exist.—The dead have no 
sex ; they can surprise by no new miracles; they can confer no privilege: Corinna 
has ceased to be a woman—she 15 only an author: and it may be foreseen that many 
will repay themselves for former complaisance, by a severity to which the extrava- 
gance of previous praises may perhaps give the colour of truth. The latest posterity , 
for to the latest posterity they will assuredly descend, will have to pronounce upon her 
various productions ; and the longer the vista through which they are seen, the more ac- 
curately minute will be the object, the more certain the justice, of the decision. She 
will enter into that existence in which the great writers of all ages and nations are, as it 
were, associated in a world of their own, and, from that superior sphere, shed their eter- 
nal influence for the control and consolation of mankind. But the individual will 
gradually disappear as the author is more distinctly seen: some one, therefore, of all 
those whom the charms of involuntary wit, and of easy hospitality, attracted within 


* See Monim. Ant. Ined. par. 1. cap. xvi. n. xii. pag. 50; and Storia delli Art 
&c. lib. xi. cap. i. tom. il. pag, 314. not. B. 


ἡ Nomina gentesque Antique Italie, p. 204, edit. oct. 


212 HISTORICAL NOTES TO 


che friendly circles of Coppet, should rescue from oblivion those virtues which, al- 
though they are said to love the shade, are, in fact, more frequently chilled than ex- 
cited by the domestic cares of private life. Some one should be found to portray the 
unaffected graces with which she adorned those dearer relationships, the periorm- 
ance of whose duties is rather discovered amongst the interior secrets, than seen in 
the outward management, of family intercourse ; and which, indeed, it requires the 
delicacy of genuine affection to qualify for the eye of an indifferent spectator. Some 
one should be found, not to celebrate, but to Jessie, the amiable mistress of an 
open mansion, the centre of a society, ever varied, and always pleased, the creator of 
which, divested of the ambition and the arts of public rivalry, shone forth only to give 
fresh animation to those around her. The mother tenderly affectionate and tenderly 
beloved, the friend unboundedly generous, but still esteemed, the charitable patroness 
of all distress, cannot be forgotten by those whom she cherished, and protected, and 
fed. Her loss will be mourned the most where she was known the best; and, to the 
sorrows of very many friends and more dependants, may be offered the disinterested 
regret of a stranger, who, amidst the sublimer scenes of the Leman lake, received his 
chief satisfaction from contemplating the engaging qualities of the incomparable 
Corinna. 


XVI. 
ALFIERI. 


‘€ Here repose 
Angelo’s, Alfieri’s bones.” 


Stanza liv. lines 6 and 7. 


Alfieri is the great name of this age. The Italians, without waiting for the hun- 
dred years, consider him as “ a poet ‘pose in law.’”’—His memory 15 the more dear 
to them because he is the bard of freedom ; and because, as such, his tragedies can 
receive no countenance from any of their sovereigns. They are but very seldom, 
and but very few of them, allowed to be acted. It was observed by Cicero, that 
nowhere were the true opinions and feelings of the Romans so clearly shown as at 
the theatre.* In the autumn of 1816, a celebrated improvisatore exhibited his talents 
at the Opera-house of Milan. The reading of the theses handed in for the subjects of his 
poetry was received by a very numerous audience, for the most part im silence, or 
with laughter ; but when the assistant, un‘olding one of the papers, exclaimed, “‘ The 
apotheosis of Victor Alfieri,” the whole theatre burst into a shout, and the applause 
was continued for some moments. The lot did not fall on Alfiert; and the Signor 
Sgricci had to pour forth his extemporary common-places on the bombardment of 
Algiers. The choice, indeed, is not left to accident quite so much as might be 
thought from a first view of the ceremony ; and the police not only takes care to look 
at the papers beforehand, but in case of any prudential afterthought, steps in to cor- 
rect the blindness of chance. The proposal for deifying Alfier1 was received with 
immediate enthusiasm, the rather because it was conjectured there would be nv 
opportunity of carrying it into effect. 


* The free expression of their honest sentiments survived their liberties. Τῆς, 
the friend of Antony, presented them with games in the theatre of Pompey. They 
did not suffer the brilliancy of the spectacle to efface from their memory that the man 
who furnished them with the entertainment had murdered the son of Pompey: they 
drove him from the theatre with curses. The moral sense of a populace, spontanc- 
ously expressed, is never wrong. Even the soldiers of the triumvirs joined in the 
execration of the citizens, by shouting round the chariots of Lepidus and Plancus, 
who had proscribed their brothers, De Germanis non de Gallis duo triumphant Con- 
sules; a saying worth a record, were it nothing but a good pun. [C. Vell. Paterculy 
Hist. lib. ii. cap. Ixxix. pag. 78, edit. Elzevir. 1639. Ibid, lib. ii. cap. Ixxvii.] 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 213 


XVII. 
MACHIAVELLI. 


‘© Here Machiavelli’s earth returned to whence it rose.” 
Stanza liv. line 9. 


The affectation of simplicity in sepulchral inscriptions, which so often leaves us 
uncertain whether the structure before us is an actual depository, or a cenotaph, or a 
simple memorial not of death but life, has given to the tomb of Machiavelli no infor- 
mation as to the place or time of the birth or death, the age or parentage, of the 
historian. 


TANTO NOMINI NVLLVM PAR ELOGIVM 
NICCOLAVS MACHIAVELLI, 


There seems at least no reason why the name should not have been put above the 
sentence which alludes to it. 

It will readily be imagined that the prejudices which have passed the name of 
Machiavelli into an epithet proverbial of iniquity exist no longer at Florence. His 
memory was persecuted as his life had been for an attachment to liberty incompa- 
tible with the new system of despotism, which succeeded the fall of the free govern- 
ments of Italy. He was put to the torture for being a ‘‘ libertine,” that is, for wishing 
to restore the republic of Florence ; and such are the undying efforts of those who 
are interested in the perversion not only of the nature of actions, but the meaning of 
words, that what was once patriotism, has by degrees come to signify debauch. We 
have ourselves outlived the old meaning of “ liberality,” which is now another word 
for treason in one country and for infatuation in all. Itseems to have been a strange 
mistake to accuse the author of ‘‘ The Prince,” as being a pander to tyranny ; and to 
think that the Inquisition would condemn his work for such a delinquency. The fact 
is, that Machiavelli, as is usual with those against whom no crime can be proved, was 
suspected of and charged with atheism; and the first and last most violent opposers 
of “ὙΠῸ Prince ” were both Jesuits, one of whom persuaded the inquisition “ benche 
fosse tardo,” to prohibit the treatise, and the other qualified the secretary of the 
Florentine republic as no better thana fool. The father Possevin was proved never 
to have read the book, and the father Lucchesini not to have understood it. It is 
clear, however, that such critics must have objected not to the slavery of the doc- 
trines, but to the supposed tendency of a lesson which shows how distinct are the 
interests of a monarch from the happiness of mankind. The Jesuits are re-esta- 
blished in Italy, and the last chapter of ‘* The Prince ” may again call forth a particular 
refutation, from those who are employed once more in moulding the minds of the ris- 
ing generation, so as to receive the impressions of despotism. The chapter bears for 
title, ςς Esortazione a liberare la Italia dai Barbari,” and concludes with a libertine 
excitement to the future redemption of Italy. ‘‘ Non si deve adunque lasciar pas- 
sare questa occasione, acciocché la Italia vegga dopo tanto tempo apparire un suo 
redentore. Né posso esprimere con qual amore ei fusse ricevuto in tutte quelle pro- 
vincie, che hanno patito per queste illuvyioni esterne, con qual sete di vendetta, con 
che ostinata fede, con che lacrime. Quali porte se li serrerebeno ? Quali popoli li 
negherebbono la obbedienza? Quuale Italiano li negherebbe l’ossequio? AD OGNUNO 
PUZZA QUESTO BARBARO DOMINIO,” * 


* Tl Principe di Niccol? Machiavelli, &c. con la prefazione e le note istoriche ὁ 
politiche di M. Amelot de la Houssaye e |’ esame e confutazione dell’ opera.... 
Cosmopoli, 1769. 


214 HISTORICAL NOTES TO 


XVII. 
DANTE. 


‘* Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar.” 
Stanza lvii. line 1. 


Dante was born in Florence in the year 1261. He fought im two battles, was 
fourteen times ambassador, and once prior of the republic. When the party of 
Charles of Anjou triumphed over the Bianchi, he was absent on an embassy to Pope 
Boniface VIII., and was condemned to two years’ banishment, and to a fine of 8000 
lire ; on the non-payment of which he was further punished by the sequestration of 
all his property. The republic, however, was not content with this satisfaction, for 
in 1772 was discovered in the archives at Florence a sentence in which Dante is the 
eleventh of a list of fifteen condemned in 1302 to be burnt alive; T'alis perveniens 
igne comburatur sic quod moriatur. The pretext for this judgment was a proof of unfair 
barter, extortions, and illicit gains. Baracteriarum miquarum, extorsionum, et illicit- 
orum lucrorum,* and with such an accusation it is not strange that Dante should 
have always protested his innocence, and the injustice of his fellow-citizens. His 
appeal to Florence was accompanied by another to the Emperor Henry; and the 
death of that sovereign in 1313, was the signal for a sentence of irrevocable banish- 
ment. He had before lingered near Tuscany with hopes of recall; then travelled 
‘nto the north of Italy, where Verona had to boast of his longest residence ; and he 
inally settled at Ravenna, which was his ordinary but not constant abode urtil his 
death. The refusal of the Venetians to grant him a public audience, on the part of 
Guido Novello da Polenta, his protector, is said to have been the principal cause of 
this event, which happened in 1321. He was buried (‘‘ in sacra mmorum zde”’) at 
Rayenna, in a handsome tomb, which was erected by Guido, restored by Bernardo 
Bembo in 1483, praetor for that republic which had refused to hear him, avain restored 
by Cardinal Corsi in 1692, and replaced by a more magnificent sepulchre, constructed 
in 1780 at the expense of the Cardinal Luigi Valenti Gonzaga. The offence » 
misfortune of Dante was an attachment to a defeated party, and, as his least favour- 
able biographers allege against him, too great a freedom of speech and haughtiness of 
manner. But the next age paid honours almost divine to the exile. The Floren- 
unes, having in vain and frequently attempted to recover his body, crowned his image 
ma church,{ and his picture is still one of the idols of their cathedral. They struck 
medals, they raised statues to him. The cities of Italy, not being able to dispute 
about his own birth, contended for that of his great poem, and the Florentines thought 
it for their honour to prove that he had finished the seventh Canto before they drove 
him from his native city. Fifty-one years after his death, they endowed a profes- 
sorial chair for the expounding of his verses, and Boccaccio was appointed to this 
patriotic employment. ‘The example was imitated by Bologna and Pisa, and the 
commentators, if they performed but little service to literature, augmented the vene- 
ration which beheld a sacred or moral allegory in all the images of his mystic muse. 
His birth and his infancy were discovered to have been distinguished above those of 
ordinary men: the author of the Decameron, his earliest biographer, relates that his 
mother was warned in a dream of the importance of her pregnancy : and it was found, 
by others, that at ten years of age he had marsfested his precocious passion for that 
wisdom or theology, which, under the name of Beatrice, had been mistaken for a 
substantial mistress. When the Divine Comedy had been recognised as a mere 
mortal production, and at ihe distance of two centuries, when criticism and competi- 
tion had sobered the judgment of the Italians, Dante was seriously declared superior to 
Homer ;{ and though the preference appeared to some casuists “‘ an heretical blas- 
phemy worthy of the flames,” the contest was vigorously maintained for nearly fifty 
years, In later times it was made a question which of the Lords of Verona could 


* Storia della Lett. Ital. tom. v. lib. iii, par. 2. p. 448. Tiraboschi is incorrect 
the dates of the three decrees against Dante are A. D. 1302, 1314, and 1316. 

{ So relates Ficino, but some think his coronation only an allegory. See Storia, 
&ce. ut sup. p. 453. 

t By Varchi, in his Ercolano. The controversy continued from 1570 to 1616 
See Storia, &c. tom. vii. lib. ii. par, in. p. 1280. 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 215 


boast of having patronized him,* and the jealous scepticism of one writer would not 
allow Ravenna the undoubted possession of his bones. Even the critical Tiraboschi 
was inclined to believe that the poet had foreseen and foretold one of the discoveries 
of Galileo.—Like the great originals of other nations, his popularity has not always 
maintained the same level. ‘The last age seemed inclined to undervalue him as a 
model and a study ; and Bettinelli one day rebuked his pupil Monti, for poring over 
the harsh and obsolete extravagances of the Commedia. The present generation, 
having recovered from the Gallic idolatries of Cesarotti, has returned to the ancient 
worship, and the Danteg giare of the northern Italians is thought even indiscreet by 
the more moderate 'T'uscans. 

There is still much curious information relative to the life and writings of this great 
poet, which has not as yet been collected even by the Italians; but the celebrated 
Ugo Foscolo meditates to supply this defect, and it is not to be regretted that this 
national werk has been reserved for one so devoted to his country and the cause of 
truth, 


XIX. 
TOMB OF THE SCIPIOS. 


“ Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ; 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
Proscribed,” &c. 


Stanza lvii. Imes 2, 3, and 4. 


The elder Scipio Africanus had a tomb if he was not buried at Liternum, whither 
he had retired to voluntary banishment. This tomb was near the sea-shore, and 
the story of an inscription upon it, Ingrata Patria, having given a name to a modern 
tower, is, if not true, an agreeable fiction. If he was not buried, he certainly lived 
there. 


In cosi angusta e solitaria villa 
Era Ἶ grand’ uomo che d’ Africa s’appella 
Perché prima col ferro al vivo aprilla. 1 


Ingratitude is generally supposed the vice peculiar to republics ; and it seems to be 
forgotten that for one instance of popular inconstancy, we have a hundred examples of 
the fall of courtly favourites. Besides, a people have often repented—a monarch 
seldom or never. Leaving apart many familiar proof of this fact, a short story may 
show the difference between even an aristocracy and the multitude. ᾿ 

Vettor Pisani, having been defeated in 1354 at Portolongo, and many years after- 
wards in the more decisive action of Pola, by the Genoese, was recalled by the 
Venetian government, and thrown into chains. The Avvogadori proposed to behead 
him, but the supreme tribunal was content with the sentence of imprisonment. Whilst 
Pisani was suffering this unmerited disgrace, Chioza, in the vicinity of the capital,§ 
was by the assistance of the Signor of Padua, delivered into the hands of Pietro 
Doria. At the mtelligence of that disaster, the great bell of St. Mark’s tower tolled 
io arms, and the people and the soldiery of the galleys were summoned to the repulse 
of the approaching enemy ; but they protested they would not move a step, unless . 
Pisani were liberated and placed at their head. The great council was instantly as- 
sembled ; the prisoner was called before them, and the Doge, Andrea Contarini, in- 
formed him ofthe demands of the people and the necessities of the state, whose only 
hope of safety was reposed on his efforts, and who implored him to forget the indig- 
nities he had endured inher service. “Ὁ I have submitted,” replied the magnanimous 
republican, ‘ I have submitted to your deliberations without complaint ; I have sup- 
ported patiently the pains of imprisonment, for they were inflicted at your command : 


* Gio. Jacopo Dionisi Canomeco di Verona. Serie di Aneddoti, n. 2. See Storia 
&c. tom. v. lib. 1. par. 1. p. 24. 

Τ᾿ Vitam Literni egit sine desiderio urbis. See T. Liv. Hist. lib. xxxviii. Livy 
reports that some said he was buried at Liternum, others at Rome. Tb. cap. lv. 


{ Trionfo della Castita. § See note 6, page 201 


216 HISTORICAL NOTES TO 


tnis 1s no time to inquire whether I deserved them—the good of the republic may 
have seemed to require it, and that which the republic resolves is always resolved 
wisely. Behold me ready to lay down my life for the preservation of my country.” 
Pisani was appointed generalissimo, and _ by his exertions, in conjunction with those 
of Carlo Zeno, the Venetians soon recovered the ascendency over their maritime 
rivals. 

The Italian communities were no less unjust to their citizens than the Greek re- 
publics. Liberty, both with the one and the other, seems to have been a national, 
not an individual object : and, notwithstanding the boasted equality before the laws, 
which an ancient Greek writer* considered the great distinctive mark between. his 
countrymen and the barbarians, the mutual rights of fellow-citizens seem: never to 
have been the principal scope of the old democracies. The world may have not yet 
seen an essay by the author of the Italian Republics, in which the distinction hetween 
the liberty of former states, and the signification attached to that word by the happier 
constitution of England, is ingeniously developed. The Italians, however, when they 
had ceased to be free, still looked back with a sigh upon those times of turbulence, 
when every citizen might rise to a share of sovereign power, and have never been 
taught fully to appreciate the repose of amonarchy. Sperone Speroni, when Francis 
Maria II. Duke of Rovere proposed the question, ‘‘ which was preferable, the re- 
public or the principality —the perfect and not durable, or the less perfect and not so 
liable to change,” replied, ‘‘ that our happiness is to be measured by its quality, not 
by its duration ; and that he preferred to live for one day like a man, than fora hundred 
years like a brute, a stock, or a stone.” This was thought, and called, a magni- 
Jicent answer, down to the last days of Italian servitude.f 


XX. 
PETRARCH’S CROWN. 


‘© And the crown 
Which Petrarch’s .aureate brow supremely wore 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown.” 
Stanza lvii. lines 6, 7, and 8. 


The Florentines did not take the opportunity of Petrarch’s short visit to their city 
in 1350 to revoke the decree which confiscated the property of his father, who had 
been banished shortly after the exile of Dante. His crown did not dazzle them ; but 
when in the next year they were in want of his assistance in the formation of their 
university, they repented of their injustice, and Boccaccio was sent to Padua to en- 
treat the laureate to conclude his wanderings in the bosom of his native country, 
where he might finish his immortal Africa, and enjoy, with his recovered possessions, 
the esteem of all classes of his fellow-citizens. ‘They gave him the option of the book 
and the science he might condescend to expound: they called him the glory of his 
country, who was dear, and would be dearer to them ; and they added, that if there 
was any thing unpleasing in their letter, he ought to return among them, were it only 
to correct their style.{ Petrarch seemed at first to listen to the flattery and to the 
entreaties of his friend, but he did not return to Florence, and preferred a pilgrimage 
to the tomb of Laura and the shades of Vaucluse. : 


* The Greek boasted that he was icovéyos. See the last chapter of the first oook 
of Dionysius of Halicarnassus. 

t ““ Ὁ intorno alla magnifica risposta,’? &c. Serassi, Vita del Tasso, lib. ΠῚ. 
pag. 149. tom. ii. edit. 2. Bergamo. 

1 ““ Accingiti innoltre, se ci ὃ lecito ancor I esortarti, a ccmpire |’ immortal tua 
Africa . . . Se ti avviene d’ incontrare nel nostro stile cosa che ti dispiaceia, cid debb’ 
essere un altro motivo ad esaudire i desiderj della tua patria.” Storia della Lett. 


Ital. tom. v. par. i. lib. 1. pag. 76. 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 217 


XX. 
BOCCACCIO. 


** Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath’d 
His dust.” 


Stanza ivill. lines 1 and 2. 


Boccaccio was buried in the church of St. Michael and St. James, at Certaldo, a 
small town in the Valdelsa, which was by some supposed the place of his birth. ‘U'here 
he passed the latter part of his life in a course of laborious study, which shortened his 
existence ; and there might his ashes have been secure, if not of honour, at least of re- 
pose. But the “hyena bigots” of Certaldo tore up the tombstone of Boccaccio, 
and ejected it from the holy precincts of St. Michael and St. James. ‘The oceasion, 
and, αὖ may be hoped, the excuse, of this ejectment was the making of a new floor for 
the church ; but the fact is, that the tombstone was taken up and thrown aside at the 
bottom of the building, “Lgnorance may share the sin with bigotry. It would be pain- 
ful to relate such an exception te the devotion of the Italians for their great names, 
could it not be accompanied by a trait more honourably conformable to the general 
character of the nation. ‘The principal person of the district, the last branch of the 
house of Medicis, afforded that protection to the memory of the insulted dead which 
her best ancestors had dispensed upon all contemporary merit. ‘The Marchioness 
Lenzoni rescued the tombstone of Boccaccio from the neglect in which it had some 
time lain, and found for it an honourable elevation in her own mausion. She has done 
inore : the house in which the poet lived has been as little respected as his tomb, and 
is falling to ruin over the head of one indifferent to the name ofits former tenant. It 
consists of two or three httle chambers, and a low tower, on which Cosmo II. affixed 
an inscription. This house she has taken measures to purchase, and proposes to de- 
vote'to it that care and consideration which are attached to the cradle and to the roof 
of genius. ἢ 

‘This is not the place to undertake the defence of Boccaccio ; but the man who ex- 
hausted his little patrimony in the acquirement of learning, who was amongst the first, 
if not the first, to allure the science and the poetry of Greece to the bosom of Italy ; 
. — who not only invented a new style, but founded, or certainly fixed, a new lan- 
guage ; who, besides the esteem of every polite court of Kurope, was thought worthy 
of employment by the predominant republic of his own country, and, what is more, of 
the friendship of Petrarch, who lived the life of a philosopher, and a freeman, and who 
_ died in the pursuit of knowledge, — such a man might have found more consideration 
than he has met with from the priest of Certaldo, and from a late English traveller, 
who strikes off his portrait as an odious, contemptible, licentious writer, whose impure 
remains should be suffered to rot without a record.* That English traveller, unfor- 
tunately for those who have to deplore the loss of a very amiable person, is beyond 
all criticism ; but the mortality which did not protect Boccaccio from Mr. Eustace, 
must not defend Mr. Eustace from the impartial judgment of his successors. — 
Death may canonize his virtues, not his errors ; and it may be modestly pronounced 
that he transgressed, not only as an author, but as a man, when he evoked the shade 
of Boccaccio in company with that of Aretine, amidst the sepulchres of Santa Croce, 
merely to dismiss it withindignity. As far as respects 


* Classical Tour, cap. ix. vol. il. p. 355. edit. 3d. ‘* Of Boccaccio, the modern 
Petronius, we say nothing ; the abuse of genius is more odious and more contempt- 
ible than its absence ; and it imports little where the impure remains of a licentious 
author are consigned to their kindred dust. For the same reason the traveller may 
pass unnoticed the tomb of the malignant Aretino.”” This dubious phrase is_ hardly 
enough to save the tourist from the suspicion of another blunder respecting the 
burial-place of Aretine, whose tomb was in the church of St. Luke at Venice, and 
gave rise to the famous controversy of which some notice is taken in Bayle. Now 
the words of Mr. Eustace would lead us to think the tomb was at Florence, or at least 
was to be somewhere recognised. Whether the inscription so much disputed was 
ever written on the tomb cannot now be decided, for all memorial of this author has 
disappeared from the church of St. Luke. 


218 HISTORICAL NOTES TO 


“ἢ flagello de’? Principi,. 
Il divin Pietro Aretino,” 


it is of little import what censure is passed upon a coxcomb who owes his present 
existence to the above burlesque character given to him by the poet, whose amber 
has preserved many other grubs and worms: but to classify Boccaccio with such a 
person, and to excommunicate his very ashes, must of itself make us doubt of the 
qualification of the classical tourist for writing upon Italian, or, indeed, upon any 
other literature ; for ignorance on one point may incapacitate an author merely for 
that particular topic, but subjection to a professional prejudice must render him an 
unsafe director on all occasions. Any perversion and injustice may be made what is 
vulgarly called ‘‘ a case of conscience,” and this poor excuse 15 all that can be offer- 
ed for the priest of Certaldo, or the author of the Classical Tour. It would have 
answered the purpose to confine the censure to the novels of Boccaccio, and gratitude 
to that source which supplied the muse of Dryden with her last and most harmonious 
numbers might, perhaps, have restricted that censure to the objectionable qualities of 
the hundred tales. At any rate the repentance of Boccaccio might have arrested his 
exhumation, and it should have been recollected and told, that in his old age he wrote a 
letter entreating his friend to discourage the reading of the Decameron, for the sake 
of modesty, and for the sake of the author, who would not have an apologist always at 
hand to state in his excuse that he wrote it when young, and at-the command of his 
superiors.* It is neither the licentiousness of the writer, nor the evil propensities of 
the reader, which have given to the Decameron alone, of all the works of Boccaccio, 
a perpetual popularity. The establishment of a new and delightful dialect conferred 
an immortality on the works in which it was first fixed. The sonnets of Petrarch 
were, for the same reason, fated to survive his self-admired Africa, the ‘‘ favourite of 
kings.’? ‘The invariable traits of nature and feeling with which the novels, as well as 
the verses, abound, have doubtless been the chief source of the foreign celebrity of 
both authors ; but Boccaccio, as a man, is no more to be estimated by that work, 
than Petrarch is to be regarded imno other light than as the lover of Laura. Even 
however, had the father of the Tuscan prose been known only as the author of the 
Decameron, a considerate writer would have been cautious to pronounce a sentence 
irreconcilable with the unerring voice of many ages and nations. An irrevocable 
value has never been stamped upon any work solely recommended by impurity. 

The true source of the outcry against Boccaccio, which began at a very early 
period, was the choice of his scandalous personages in the cloisters as well as the 
courts ; but the princes only laughed at the gallant adventures so unjustly charged 
upon queen Theodelinda, whilst the priesthood cried shame upon the debauches 
drawn from the convent and the hermitage ; and most probably for the opposite rea- 
son, namely, that the picture was faithful to the life. Two of the novels are allowed 
to be facts usefully turned into tales, to deride the canonisation of rogues and laymen. 
Ser Ciappelletto and Marcellinus are cited with applause even by the decent Mura- 
tori.{ ‘The great Arnaud, as he is quoted in Bayle, states, that a new edition of the 
novels was proposed, of which the expurgation consisted in omitting the words 
ἐς monk” and‘ nun,” and tacking the immoralities toother names. The literary 
history of Italy particularizes no such edition ; but it was not long before the whole 
of Europe had but one opmion of the Decameron ; and the absolution of the author 
seems to have been a point settled at least a hundred years ago: “ On se feroit 
siffer si on prétendoit convaincre Boccace de n’avoir pas te honnéte homme, puis 
qwila fait le Décameron.” So said one of the best men, and perhaps the best critic, 
that ever lived —the very martyr to impartiality.{ But as this information, that in 
the beginning of the last century one would have been hooted at for pretending that 
Boceaccio was not a good man, may seem to come from one of those enemies who 
are to be suspected, even when they make us a presentof truth, a more acceptable 


* “Non enim ubique est, qui in excusationem meam consurgens dicat, juvenis 
scripsit, et majoris coactus imperio.”” The letter was addressed to Maghinard of 
Cavalcanti, marshal of the kingdom of Sicily. See Tiraboschi, Storia, &c. tom. v. 
par. ii. lib. 1. pag. 525. ed Ven. 1795. 


} Dissertazioni sopra le Antichita Italiane, Diss. lvni. Ὁ. 258. tom. 111. edit. Milan, 
1751. : 


{ Eclaircissement, &c. &c. p. 638. edit. Basle, 1741, in the Supplement to Bayle’s 
Dictionary. 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 219 


contrast with the proscription of the body, soul, and muse of Boccaccio may be found 
in a few words from the virtuous, the patriotic contemporary, who thought one of the 
tales of this impure writer worthy a Latin version from his own pen. ‘I have re- 
marked elsewhere,” says Petrarch, writing to Boccaccio, ‘ that the book itself has 
been worried by certain dogs, but stoutly defended by your staff and voice. Nor 
was I astonished, for I have had proof of the vigour of your mind, and I know you 
have fallen on that unaccommodating incapable race of mortals, who, whatever they 
either like not, or know not, or cannot do, are sure to reprehend in others ; and on 
those occasions only put on a show of learning and eloquence, but otherwise are en- 
tirely dumb.” * 

It is satisfactory to find that all the priesthood do not resemble those of Certaldo, 
and that one of them who did not possess the bones of Boccaccio would not lose the 
opportunity of raising a cenotaph to hismemory. Bevius, canon of Padua, at the be- 
ginning of the sixteenth century, erected at Arqua, opposite to the tomb of the 
Laureate, a tablet, in which he associated Boccaccio to the equal honours of Dante 
and of Petrarch, » 


XXII. 
THE MEDICI. 


“© What is her pyramid of precious stones?” 
Stanza Ix. line 1. 


Our veneration for the Medici begins with Cosmo and expires with his grandson ; 
that stream is pure only at the source ; and it is in search of some memorial of the 
virtuous republicans of the family that we visit the church of St. Lorenzo at Florence. 
The tawdry, glaring, unfinished chapel in that church, designed for the mausoleum of 
the Dukes of Tuscany, set round with crowns and coffins, gives birth to no emotions 
but those of contempt for the lavish vanity of a race of despots, whilst the pavement 
slab, simply inscribed to the Father of his Country, reconciles us to the name of 
Medici.{ It was very natural for Corinna { to suppose that the statue raised to the 
Duke of Urbino in the capella de’ depositi was intended for his great namesake ; but 
the magnificent Lorenzo is only the sharer of a coffin half hidden in a niche of the 
sacristy. The decay of Tuscany dates from the sovereignty of the Medici. Of the 
sepulchral peace which succeeded to the establishment of the reigning families in 
Italy, our own Sidney has given us a glowing, but a faithful picture. ‘* Notwith- 
standing all the seditions of Florence, and other cities of Tuscany, the horrid factions 
of Guelphs and Ghibelins, Neri and Bianchi, nobles and commons, they continued 
populous, strong, and exceeding rich ; but in the space of less than a hundred and fifty 
years, the peaceable reign of the Medices is thought to have destroyed nine parts in 
ten of the people of that province. Among other things, it is remarkable, that when 
Philip the Second of Spain gave Sienna to the Duke of Florence, his embassador 
then at Rome sent him word, that he had given away more than 650,000 subjects ; 
and it is not believed there are now 20,000 souls inhabiting that city and territory. 
Pisa, Pistoia, Arezzo, Cortona, and other towns, that were then good and populous, 
are in the like proportion diminished, and Florence more than any. When that city 
had been long troubled with seditions, tumults, and wars, for the most part unpros- 
perous, they still retained such strength, that when Charles VIII. of France, being 


* “ Animadverti alicubi librum ipsum canum dentibus lacessitum, tuo tamen 
baculo egregié tudque voce defensam. Nec miratus sum: nam et vires ingenii tui 
novi, et scio expertus esses hominum genus insolens et ignavum, qui quicquid ipsi vel 
nolunt vel nesciunt, vel non possunt, in aliis reprehendunt ; ad hoc unum docti et 
ara sed elingues ad reliqua.”” Epist. Joan. Boccatio, Opp. tom. i. p. 540, edit. 

asil. 


1 Cosmus Medices, Decreto Publico, Pater Patriz. 
1 Corinne, liv. xviii. cha». 111, vol. iii. page 248. 


220 HISTORICAL NOTES TO 


admitted as a friend with his whole army, which soon after conquered the kingdom 
of Naples, thought to master them, the people, taking arms, struck such a terror into 
him, that he was glad to depart upon such conditions as they thought fit to impose. 
Machiavel reports, that in that ume F'lorence alone, with the Val d’Arno, a small 
territory belonging to that city, could, in a few hours, by the sound of a bell, bring 
together 135,000 well-armed men; whereas now that city, with all the others in that 
province, are brought to such despicable weakness, emptiness, poverty, and baseness, 
they can neither resist the oppressions of their own prince, nor defend him or them- 
selves if they were assaulted by a foreign enemy. ‘The people are dispersed or de- 
stroyed, and the best families sent to seek habitations in Venice, Genoa, Rome, 
Naples,and Lucca. This is not the effect of war or pestilence : they enjoy a perfect 
peace, and suffer no other plague than the government they are under.”* From the 
usurper Cosmo down to the imbecile Gaston, we look in vain for any of those unmixed 
qualities which should raise a patriot to the command of his fellow-citizens. The 
Grand Dukes, and particularly the third Cosmo, had operated so entire a change in 
the Tuscan character, that the candid Florentines, in excuse for some imperfections 
in the philanthropic system of Leopold, are obliged to confess that the sovereign was 
the only liberal man in his dominions. Yet that excellent prince himself had no other 
notion of a national assembly, than of a body to represent the wants and wishes not 
the will, of the people. 


XXIII. 
BATTLE OF THRASIMENE., 


* An earthquake reel’d unheededly away.” 
Stanza Ixiii. line 5. 


** And such was their mutual animosity, so intent were they upon the battle, that 
the earthquake, which overthrew in great part many of the cities of Italy, which 
turned the course of rapid streams, poured back the sea upon the rivers, and tore 
down the very mountains, was not felt by one of the combatants.” Such is the 
description of Livy. It may be doubted whether modern tactics would admit of such 
an abstraction. 

The site of the battle of Thrasimene is not to be mistaken. The traveller from 
the village under Cortona to Casa di Piano, the next stage on the way to Rome, has 
for the first two or three miles, around him, but more particularly to the right, that 
flat land which Hannibal laid waste in order to induce the Consul Flaminius to move 
from Arezzo. On his left, and in front of him, is a ridge of hills bending down towards 
the lake of T'hrasimene, called by Livy ‘‘ montes Cortonenses,” and now named the 
Gualandra. These hills he approaches at Ossaja, a village which the itineraries 
pretend to have been so denominated from the bones found there: but there have 
been no bones found there, and the battle was fought on the other side of the hill. 
From Ossaja the road begins to rise a little, but does not pass into the roots of the 
mountains until the sixty-seventh milestone from Florence. The ascent thence is 
not steep but perpetual, and continues for twenty minutes. The lake is soon seen 
below on the right, with Borghetto, a round tower, close upon the water; and the 
undulating hills partially covered with wood, amongst which the road winds, sink by 
degrees into the marshes near to this tower. Lower than the road, down to the 
right amidst. these woody hillocks, Hannibal placed his horse,{ in the jaws of, or rather 


* On Government, chap. 1i. sect. xxvi. pag. 208. edit. 1751. Sidney is, together 
with Locke and Hoadley, one of Mr. Hume’s “‘ despicable” writers. 


Tt ““ Tantusque fuit ardor animorum, adeo intentus pugnz animus, ut eum terre 
motum qui multarum urbium Italiz magnas partes prostravit, avertitque cursu rapido 
amnes, mare fluminibus invexit, montes Japsu ingenti proruit, nemo pugnantium sen- 
serit.” Tit. Liv. lib. xxii. cap. xii. 

+ “ Equites ad ipsas fauces saltus tumulis apte, tegentibus locat.”  T. Livi, lib. 
Xxil. cap. iv, 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 221 


above, the pass, which was between the lake and the present road, and most probably 
close to Borghetto, just under the lowest of the “ tumuli.”* On a summit to the left, 
above the road, is an old circular ruin, which the peasants call “ the Tower of Han- 
nibal the Carthaginian.” Arrived at the highest point of the road, the traveller has 
a partial view of the fatal plain, which opens fully upon him as he descends the Gua- 
landra. He soon finds himself in a vale enclosed to the left and in front, and behind 
him by the Gualandra hills, bending round in a segment larger than a semicircle, and 
running down at each end to the lake, which obliques to the right and forms the chord 
of this mountain are. The position cannot be guessed at from the plains of Cortona, 
nor appears to be so completely enclosed unless to one who is fairly within the hills. 
It then, indeed, appears ‘‘ a place made as it were on purpose for a snare,” locus 
insidiis natus. “" Borghetto 15 then found to stand in a narrow marshy pass close to 
the hill, and to the lake, whilst there is no other outlet at the opposite turn of the 
mountains than through the little town of Passignano, which is pushed into the water 
by the foot of a high rocky acclivity.”} There is a woody eminence branching down 
from the mountains into the upper end of the plain nearer to the side of Passignano, 
and on this stands a white village called Torre. Polybius seems to allude to this 
eminence as the one on which Hannibal encamped, and drew out his heavy-armed 
Africans and Spaniards in a conspicuous position.{ From this spot he despatched 
his Balearic and light-armed troops round through the Gualandra heights to the right, 
so as to arrive unseen and form an ambush among the broken acclivities which the 
road now passes, and to be ready to act upon the left flank and above the enemy, 
whilst the horse shut up the pass behind. TF laminius came to the lake near Borghetto 
at sunset; and, without sending any spies before him, marched through the pass the 
next morning before the day had quite broken, so that he perceived nothing of the 
horse and light troops above and about him, and saw only the heavy-armed Carthagi- 
nians in front on the hill of Torre.§ The consul began to draw out his army in the 
flat, and in the mean time the horse in ambush occupied the pass behind him at Bor- 
ghetto. ‘[hus the Romans were completely inclosed, having the lake on the right, 
the main army on the hill of Torre in front, the Gualandra hills filled with the light- 
armed on their left flank, and being prevented from receding by the cavalry, who, the 
farther they advanced, stopped up ail the outlets inthe rear. A fog rising from the 
lake now spread itself over the army of the consul, but the high lands were in the sun- 
shine, and all the different corps in ambush looked towards the hill of Torre for the 
order of attack. Hannibal gave the signal, and moved down from his post on the 
height. At the same moment all his troops on the eminences behind and in the flank 
of Flaminius, rushed forwards as it were with one accord into the plain., The Romans, 
who were forming their array in the mist, suddenly heard the shouts of the enemy 
among them, on every side, and before they could fall into their ranks, or draw their 
swords, or see by whom they were attacked, felt at once that they were surrounded 
and lost. 

There are two little rivulets which run from the Gualandra into the lake. The 
traveller crosses the first of these at about a mile after he comes into the plain, and 
this divides the Tuscan from the Papal territories. The second, about a quarter of a 
mile further on, is called “ the bloody rivulet,” and the peasants point out an open 
spot to the left between the ‘‘ Sanguinetto” and the hills, which, they say, was the 
principal scene of slaughter. The other part of the plain is covered with thick set 
olive-trees in corn grounds, and is nowhere quite level except near the edge of the 
lake. It is, indeed, most probable, that the battle was fought near this end of the 
valley, for the six thousand Romans, who, at the beginning of the action, broke 
through the enemy, escaped to the summit of an eminence which must have been in 
this quarter, otherwise they would have had to traverse the whole plain, and to pierce 
through the main army of Hannibal. 


* ‘ Ubi maxime montes Cortonenses Thrasimenus subit.” Ibid, 

+ ‘ Inde colles assurgunt.” Ibid. 

1 Tov μὲν κατὰ πρόσωπον τῆς πορεΐας λόφον ἀυτὸς κατελάβετο καὶ τοὺς Λίβυας, καὶ 
τοὺς Ἰβηρας, ἔχων ἐπ᾽ ἀυτοῦ κατεστρατοπέδευσε. Hist. lib. 111. cap. 89. ‘The account 
in Polybius is not so easily reconcilable with present appearances as that in Livy: he 
talks of hills to the right and left of the pass and valley ; but when F'laminius entered 
he had the lake at the right of both. 


δ “ A tergo et super caput decepere insidie.” T. Liv. &c, 


222 HISTORICAL NOTES TO 


The Romans fought desperately for three hours, but the death of Flaminius was 
the signal for a general dispersion. ‘The Carthaginian horse then burst in upon the 
fugitives, and the lake, the marsh about Borghetto, but chiefly the pla of the San- 
guinetto and the passes of the Gualandra, were strewed with dead. Near some old 
walls on a bleak ridge to the left above the rivulet many numan bones have been 
repeatedly found, and this has confirmed the pretensions and the name of the “ stream 
of blood.’ 

avery district of Italy has its hero. In the north some painter is the usual genius 
of the place, and the foreign Julio Romano more than divides Mantua with her native 
Virgil.* To the south we hear of Roman names. Near Thrasimene tradition is 
sull faithful to the fame of an enemy, and Hannibal the Carthaginian is the only 
ancient name remembered on the banks of the Perugian lake. Flaminius is unknown ; 
but the postilions on that road have been taught to show the very spot where 21 Con- 
sole Romano was slain. Of all who fought and fell in the battle of Thrasimene, the 
nistorian himself has, besides the generals and Maharbal, preserved indeed only a 
single name. You overtake the Carthaginian again on the same road to Rome. 
The antiquary, that is, the hostler of the. posthouse at Spoleto, tells you that his 
town repulsed the victorious enemy, and shows you the gate still called Porta di An- 
nibale. It is hardly worth while to remark that a French travel writer, well known 
by the name of the President Dupaty, saw Thrasimene in the lake of Bolsena, which 
lay conveniently on his way from Sienna to Rome. 


XXIV. 
STATUE OF POMPEY. 


* And thou, dread statue! still existent in 
The austerest form of naked majesty.” 


Stanza Ixxxvu. lines 1 and 2. 


The projected division of the Spada Pompey has already been recorded by the 
historian of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Mr. Gibbon found it m 
the memorials of Flaminius Vacca ;t and it may be added to his mention of it that 
Pope Julius III. gave the contending owners five hundred crowns for the statue ; 
and presented it to Cardinal Capo di Ferro, who had prevented the judgment of 
Solomon from being executed upon the image. Inamore civilised age this statue 
was exposed to an actual operation : for the French, who acted the Brutus of Voltaire 
in the Coliseum resolved that their Cesar should fall at the base of that Pompey, 
which was supposed to have been sprinkled with the blood of the original dictator. 
The nine-foot hero was therefore removed to the arena of the amphitheatre, and to 
facilitate its transport, suffered the temporary amputation of its ight arm, The republi- 
can tragedians had to plead that the arm was a restoration: but their accusers do not 
believe that the integrity of the statue would have protected it. The love of finding 
every coincidence has discovered the true Cesarean ichor in a stain near the right 
knee, but colder criticism has rejected not only the blood but the portrait, and as- 
signed the globe of power rather to the first of the emperors than to the last of the re- 
publican masters of Rome. Winkelmann. is loth to allow an heroic statue ofa 
Roman citizen, but the Grimani Agrippa, a contemporary almost, is heroic ; and naked 
Roman figures were only very rare, not absolutely forbidden. The face accords 
much better with the ‘‘ hominem integrum et castum et gravem,”’§ thanwith any of 


* About the middle of the XIIth century the coins of Mantua bore on one side the 
image and figure of Virgil. Zecea d’[taha, pl. xvii. i. 6. Voyage dans ie Milanais 
&e. par. A. Z. Millin. tom. 11. pag. 294. Paris, 1817. 


{ Memorie, num. lvii. pag. 9. ap. Montfaucon, Diarium Italicum. 
t Storia delle Arti, &c. lib. 1x. cap. 1. pag. 321, 322. tom, ii. 
ὃ Cicer. Epist. ad Atticum, xi. 6. 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 223 


tne busts of Augustus, and is too stern for him who was beautiful, says Suetonius, at 
all periods of his life. The pretended likeness to Alexander the Great cannot be 
discerned, but the traits resemble the medal of Pompey. ‘The* objectionable globe 
may not have been an ill applied flattery to him who found Asia Minor the boundary, 
dil okt it the centre of the Roman empire. It seems that Winkelmann has made a 
mistake in thinking that no proof of the identity of this statue with thai which received 
the bloody sacrifice, can be derived from the spot where it was discove.ed.t Flami- 
nius Vacca says sotto wna cantina, and this cantina is known to have been in the Vicolo 
de’ Leutari, near the Cancellaria, a position corresponding exactly to that of the 
Janus before the basilica of Pompey’s theatre, to which Augustus transferred the 
statue after the curia was either burnt or taken down.{ Part of the Pompeian shade ,§ 
the portico, existed in the beginning of the X Vth century, and the atrium was stil! 
called Satrum. So says Blondus. |[ At all events, so imposing is the stern majesty 
of the statue, and so memorable is the story, that the play of the imagination leaves 
no room for the exercise of the judgment, and the fiction, if a fiction it is, operates on 
the spectator with an effect rot less powerful than truth. 


XXYV. 
THE BRONZE WOLF. 


*« And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome!” 


Stanza Ixxxvili. line 1. 


Ancient Rome, like modern Sienna, abounded most probably with the images of 
the foster-mother of her founder; but there were two she-wolves of whom history 
makes particular mention. One of these, of brass in ancient work, was seen by 
Dionysius] at the temple of Romulus, under the Palatine, and is universally believed 
to be that mentioned by the Latin historian, as having been made from the money 
collected by a fine on usurers, and as standing under the Ruminal fig-tree.** The 
other was that which Ciceroff has celebrated both in prose and verse, and which the 
historian Dion also records as having suffered the same accident as is alluded to by 


* Published by Causeus, in‘his Museum Romanum. 
ἡ Storia delle Arti, &c. lib. ix. cap. 1. pag. 321, 322. tom. ii. 


1 Sueton. in vit. August. cap. 31, and in vit. C. J. Cesar. cap. 88. Appian says 
it was burnt down. See a note of Pitiscus to Suetonius, pag. 224. 


§ ‘¢ Tu modo Pompeia lenta spatiare sub umbra.” 


Ovid. Ar. Amand. 
|| Roma Instaurata, hb. 11. fo. 31. 


7 Χάλκεα ποιήματα παλαιᾶς ἐργασίας. Antiq. Rom. lib. 1, 


** ες Ad ficum Ruminalem simulacra infantium conditorum urbis sub uberibus 
‘aps posuerunt.” Liv. Hist. lib. x. cap. lxix. This was in the year U. C. 455 or 
es P Ρ y 

od, 


tf ‘Tum statua Natte, tum simulacra Deorum, Romulusque et Remus cum 
altrice bellua vi fulminis ictis conciderunt.””. De Divinat. ii. 20. ‘‘ Tactus est ille 
᾿ etiam qui hane urbem condidit Romulus, quem inauratum in Capitolio parvum atque 
factantem, uberibus lupinis inhiantem fuisse meministis.” In Catilin. ii. 8. 


“ΠΟ silvestris erat Romani nominis altrix 
Martia, que parvos Mavortis semine natos 
Uberibus gravidis vitali rore rigebat 
Que tum cum pueris flammato fulminis ictu 
Concidit, atque avulsa pedum vestigia liquat.”’ 


De Consulatu, lib. i, (lib. i. de Divinat. cap. ii.) 


224 HISTORICAL NOTES TO 


the orator.* The question agitated by the antiquaries is, whether the wolf now im 
the Conservators’ Palace is that of Livy and Dionysius, or that of Cicero, or whether 
it is neither one nor the other. The earlier writers differ as much as the moderns ; 
Lucius Faunus{ says, that it is the one alluded to by both, which is impossible, and 
also by Virgil, which may be. Fulvius Ursinus{ calls it the wolf of Dionysius, and 
Marlianus§ iaiks of it as the one mentioned by Cicero. To him Rycquius tremblingly 
assents.|| Nardin: is inclined to suppose it may be one of the many wolves preserved 
in ancient Rome ; but of the two rather bends to the Ciceronian statue.{/ Mont- 
faucon** mentions it as a point without doubt. Of the latter writers the decisive 
Winkelmann} proclaims it as having been found at the church of Saint Theodore, 
where, or near where, was the temple of Romulus, and consequently makes it the 
wolf of Dionysius. His authority is Lucius Faunus, who, however, only says that it 
was placed, not found, at the Ficus Ruminalis, by the Comitium, by which he does 
not seem to allude to the church of Saint Theodore. Rycquius was the first to make 
the mistake, and Winkelmann followed Rycquius. 

Flaminius Vacca tells quite a different story, and says he had heard the wolf with 
the twins was found{tf near the arch of Septimius Severus. The commentator on 
Winkelmann is of the same opinion with that learned person, and is incensed at Nar- 
dini for not having remarked that Cicero, in speaking of the wolf struck with lighining 
in the Capitol, makes use of the past tense. But, with the Abate’s leave, Nardim 
does not positively assert the statue to be that mentioned by Cicero, and, if he had, 
the assumption would not perhaps have been so exceedingly indiscreet. The Abate 


* Ey’ γὰρ τῷ καπητολιῳ ἀνδριάντες τὲ πολλοὶ ὑπὸ κεραυνῶν συνεχωνεύθησαν, καὶ wyah~ 
ματα ἄλλα τε. καὶ διὸς ἐπὶ κίονος ἱδρυμένον, εἰκών τέτις λυκαίνης σὺν τε τῷ ΡῬώμῳ καὶ σὺν 
τῷ “Ῥωμύλῳ ἱδρυμένη ἔπεση. Dion. Hist. lib. xxxvil. pag. 37. edit. Rob. Steph. 1548. 
He goes on to mention that the letters of the columns on which the laws were written 
were liquefied and become ἀμυδρᾶ. All that the Romans did was to erect a large 
statue to Jupiter, looking towards the east: no mention is afterwards made of the 
wolf. This happened in A. U. C. 689. The Abate Fea, in noticing this passage 
of Dion (Storia delle Arti, &c. tom. 1. pag. 202. note x.), says, Von ostante, aggiunge 
Dione, che fosse ben fermata (the wolf) ; by which it is clear the Abate translated 
the Xylandro-Leunclavian version, which puts quamvis stabilita for the original 
idpupévn, a word that does not mean ben fermata, but only raised, as may be distinctly 
seen from another passage of the same Dion: ᾿Ηδουλήθη μὲν οὖν 6’Aypixras καὶ τὸν 
Αὔγουστον ἐνταῦθα ἱδρύσαι. Hist. lib. lvi. Dion says that Agrippa ‘‘ wished Zo raise 
a statue of Augustus in the Pantheon.” 


{ “In eadem porticu wnea lupa, cujus uberibus Romulus ac Remus lactantes 
mhiant, conspicitur: de hac Cicero et Virgilius semper intellexere, Livius hoc 
signum ab /Mdilibus ex pecuniis quibus mulctati essent foeneratores, positum innuit. 
Antea in Comitiis ad Ficum Ruminalem, quo loco pueri fuerant expositi locatum 
pro certo est.” Luc. Favni de Antiq. Urb. Rom. lib. 11. cap. vii. ap. Sallengre, 
tom, i. p. 217. In his xviith chapter he repeats that the statues were there, but not 
that they were found there. 


{ Ap. Nardini, Roma Vetus, tb. v. cap. 17. 


§ Marliani Urb. Rom. Topograph. lib. 11. cap. 1x. He mentions another wolf 
and twins in the Vatican, lib. v. cap. xxi. 


|| *‘ Non desunt quihanc ipsam esse putent, quam adpinximus, que ὃ comitio in 
Basilicam Lateranum, cum nonnullis aliis antiquitatum reliquiis, atque hine in Capi- 
tolium postea relata sit, quamvis Marlianus antiquam Capitolinam esse maluit ἃ 
Tullio descriptam, cui ut in re nimis dubia, trepidé adsentimur.”” Just. Rycquii de 
Capit. Roman. Comm. cap. xxiv. pag. 250. edit. Lugd. Bat. 1696. 


§ Nardini, Roma Vetus, lib. v. cap. iv. 


** “T.upa hodieque in capitolinis prostrat zdibus, cum vestigio fulminis quo ictam 
narrat Cicero.” Diarium Italic. tom. 1. p. 174. 


tt Storia delle Arti, &c. lib. iii. cap. iii. § 11. note 10. Winkelmann has made ἃ 
strange blunder in the note, by saying the Ciceronian wolf was not in the Capitol, 
and that Dion was wrong in saying so. 


tt “ Intesi dire, che 1 Ercolo di bronzo, che oggi si trova nella sala di Campidoglio, 
fu trovato nel foro Romano appresso I’ arco di Settimio: e vi fu trovata anche la 
lupa di bronzo che allata Romolo e Remo, e sta nella Loggia de Conservatori.” Flam. 
Vacca, Memorie, num. iii. pag. i. ap. Montfaucon, Diar, Ital. tom. 1. 


CANTO THE FCURTH. 225 


himself is obliged to own that there are marks very like the scathing of lightning in the 
hinder legs of the present wolf ; and, to get rid of this, adds, that the wolf seen by 
Dionysius might have been also struck by lightning, or otherwise injured. 

Let us examine the subject by areference to the words of Cicero. The orator in 
two places seems to particularise the Romulus and the Remus, especially the first, 
which his audience remembered to have been in the Capitol, as being struck with 
lightning. In his verses he records that the twins and wolf both fell, and that the 
latter left behind the marks of her feet. Cicero does not say that the wolf was con- 
sumed ; and Dion only mentions that it fell down, without alluding, as the Abate has 
made him, to the force of the blow, or the firmness with which it had been fixed. The 
whole strength, therefore, of the Abate’s argument hangs upon the past tense ; 
which, however, may be somewhat diminished by remarking that the phrase only 
shows that the statue was not then standing in its tormer position, Winkelmann has 
observed, that the present twins are modern ; and it is equally clear that there are 
marks of gilding on the wolf, which might therefore be supposed to make part of the 
ancient group. It is known that the sacred images of the Capitol were not destroyed 
when injured by time or accident, but were put into certain under-ground depositaries 
called favisse.* It may be thought possible that the wolf had been so deposited, and 
had been replaced in some conspicuous situation when the Capitol was rebuilt by 
Vespasian. Rycquius, without mentioning his authority, tells that it was transferred 
from the Comitium to the Lateran, and thence brought to the Capitol. If it was 
found near the arch of Severus, it may have been one of the images which Orosiust 
says was thrown down in the Forum by lightning when Alaric took the city. That 
it is of very high antiquity the workmanship is a decisive proof; and that circumstance 
induced Winkelmann to believe it the wolf of Dionysius. The Capitoline wolf, how- 
ever, may have been of the same early date as that at the temple of Romulus. Lac- 
tantius{ asserts that in his time the Romans worshipped a wolf; and it is known that 
the Lupercalia held out to a very late period) after every other observance of the 
ancient superstition had totally expired. This may account for the preservation of the 
ancient image longer than the other early symbols of Paganism. 

It may be permitted, however, to remark, that the wolf was a Roman symbol, but 
that the worship of that symbol is an inference drawn by the zeal of Lactantius. 
The early Christian writers are not to be trusted in the charges which they make 
against the Pagans. Eusebius accused the Romans to their faces of worshipping 
Simon Magus, and raising a statue to him in the island of the Tyber. The Romans 
had probably never heard of such a person before, who came, however, to play a 
considerable, though scandalous part m the church history, and has left several tokens 
of his aerial combat with St. Peter at Rome ; notwithstanding that an inscription 
found in this very island of the Tyber showed the Simon Magus of Eusebius to be a 
certain indigenal god, called Semo Sangus or Fidius. || 

Even when the worship of the founder of Rome had been abandoned, it was thought 
expedient to humour the habits of the good matrons of the city, by sending them with 
their sick infants to the church of Saint Theodore, as they had before carried them 


* Luc. Faun. ibid. 
7 See note to stanza LX XX. in Historical Illustrations. 


1 ‘ Romuli nutrix Lupa honoribus est affecta divinis, et ferrem, si animal ipsura 
fuisset, cujus figuram gerit.” Lactant. de Falsa Religione, lib. 1. cap. xx. pag. 101. 
edit. varior. 1660; that is to say, he would rather adore a wolf thana prostitute. His 
commentator has observed that the opinion of Livy concerning Laurentia being figur- 
ed in this wolf, was not universal. Strabo thought so. Rycquiusis wrong in saying 
that Lactantius mentions the wolf was in the Capitol. 


ὃ To A. D. 496. ‘ Quis credere possit,” says Baronius [Ann. Eccles. tom. 
vill. p. 602. in an, 496.], ‘ viguisse adhuc Rome ad Geilasii tempora, que fuere ante 
exordia urbis allata in Italiam Lupercalia ?”” Gelasius wrote a letter which occupies 
four folio pages to Andromachus the senator, and others, to show that the rites should 
be given up. 7 


|| Eusebius has these words: καὶ ἀνδριάντι παρ᾽ ὑμῖν ὡς ϑεὸς τετίμηται, ἐν τῷ Τίθεοι 
ποταμῷ μεταξὺ τῶν δύο γεφυρῶν, ἔχων ἐπιγραφὴν Ῥωμαϊκὴν ταύτην Σίμωνι δέω Σἄγκτω. 
Eecles. Hist. lib. ἅς cap. xill. p. 40. Justin Martyr had το] the story before ; but 
Baronius himself was obliged to detect this fable. See Nardini, Roma Vet. lib. vil. 
cap. xil. 


VOL. ΠΙ|Ι.--α 


226 HISTORICAL NOTES TO 


to the temple of Romulus.* The practice is continued to this day ; and the site of 
the above church seems to be thereby identified with that of the temple: so that if the 
wolf had been really found there, as Winkelmann says, there would be no doubt οἱ 
the present statue being that seen by Dionysius.{ But Faunus, in saying that it was 
at the Ficus Ruminalis by the Comitium, is only talking of its ancient position as re- 
corded by Pliny ; and even if he had been remarking where it was found, would not 
have alluded to the church of Saint Theodore, but to a very different place, near 
which it was then thought the Ficus Ruminalis had been, and also the Comitium ; 
that is, the three columns by the church of Santa Maria Liberatrice, at the corner of 
the Palatine looking on the Forum. 

It is, in fact, a mere conjecture where the image was actually dug up,f and per 
haps, on the whole, the marks of the gildmg, and of the lightning, are a better argu- 
ment in favour of its being the Ciceronian wolf than any that can be adduced for the 
contrary opinion. At any rate, it is reasonably selected in the text of the poem as 
one of the most intercsting relics of the ancient city,Q and is certainly the figure, if 
not the very animal to which. Virgil alludes in his beautiful verses :— 


“ς Geminos huic ubera circum 
Ludere pendentes pueros, et lambere matrem 
Impavidos: illam tereti cervice reflexam 
Mulcere alternos, et corpora fingere lingua.”’|| 


XXVI. 
JULIUS CAESAR. 


« For the Roman’s mind 
Was modell’d in a less terrestrial mould.”’ 


Stanza xc. lines 3 and 4. 


It is possible to be a very great man and to be still very inferior to Julius Cesar, 
the most complete character, so Lord Bacon thought, of all antiquity. Nature seems 
incapable of such extraordinary combinations as composed his versatile capacity, 
which was the wonder even of the Romans themselves. The first general—the only 
triumphant politician — inferior to none in eloquence — comparable to any in the at- 
tainments of wisdom, in an age made up of the greatest commanders, statesmen, 


* “In esse gli antichi pontefici per toglier la memoria de’ giuochi Lupercali 
istituiti in onore di Romolo, introdussero I’ uso di portarvi bambini oppressi da infer- 
mita occuite, accid si liberino per I’ intercessione di questo santo, come di continuo si 
sperimenta.” Rione xii. Ripa, accurata e succincta Descrizione, &c. di Roma 
Moderna, dell’ Ab. Ridolf. Venuti, 1766. 


{ Nardini, lib. v. cap. 11. convicts Pomponius Letus crassi erroris, in putting 
the Ruminal fig-tree at the church of Saint Theodore: but as Livy says the wolf was 
at the Ficus Ruminalis, and Dionysius at the temple of Romulus, he is obliged (cap. 
iv.) to own that the two were close together, as well as the Lupercal cave, shaded, 
as it were, by thc fig-tree. 

t “ Ad comitium ficus olim Ruminalis germinabat, sub qua lupe rumam, hoc est, 
mammam, docente Varrone, suxerant olim Romulus et Remus ; non procul a temple 
hodie D. Marie Liberatricis appellato, ubi forsan inventa nobilis illa wnea statua 
lupe geminos puerulos lactantis, quam hodie in Capitolio videmus.” Olai Borrichii 
Antiqua Urbis Romane Facies, cap. x. See also cap. xi, SBorrichius wrote after 
Nardini, in 1687. Ap. Grav. Antiq. Rom. tom. iv. p. 1522. 

δ Donatus, lib. xi. cap. 19. gives a medal representing on one side the wolf in the 
same position as that in the Capitol; and in the reverse the wolf with the head not 
reverted. It is of the time of Antoninus Pius. 

| En. viii. 631. See Dr. Middleton, in his Letter from Rome, who inclines to 
the Ciceronian wolf, but without examining the subject. 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 227 


orators, and philosophers that ever appeared in the world —an author who composed 
a perfect specimen of military annals in his travelling carriage — at one time in a. 
controversy with Cato, at another writing a treatise on punning, and collecting a set 
of good sayings — fighting * and making love at the same moment, and willing to 
abandon both his empire and his mistress for a sight of the Fountains of the Nile. 
Such did Julius Czesar appear to his contemporaries and to those of the subsequent 
ages who were the most inclined to deplore and execrate his ‘fatal genius. 

But we must not be so much dazzled with his surpassing glory, or with his mag- 
nanimous, his amiable qualities, as to forget the decision of his impartial country- 
meni — 


HE WAS JUSTLY SLAIN.{ 


XXVII. 
EGERIA. 


‘“ Everia! sweet creation of some heart 
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast.” 


Stanza cxv. lines 1, 2, and 3. 


The respectable authority of Flaminius Vacca would incline us to believe in the 
claims of the Egerian grotto.{ He assures us that he saw an inscription in the pave- 
ment, stating that the fountain was that of Egeria, dedicated to the nymphs. The 
inscription is not there at this day ; but Montfaucon quotes two lines § of Ovid from 


* In his tenth book, Lucan shows him sprinkled with the blood of Pharsalia in the 
arms of Cleopatra, 


‘‘ Sanguine Thessalice cladis perfusus adulter 
Admist Venerem curis, et miscuit armis.” 


After feasting with his mistress, he sits up all night to converse with the Aigyp- 
tian sages, and tells Achoreus, 


“ Spes sit mihi certa videndi ' 
Niliacos fontes, bellum civile relinquam.” 


‘* Sic velut in tuta securi pace trahebant 
Noctis iter medium.” 


Immediately afterwards, he is fighting again, and defending every position. 


*¢ Sed adest defensor ubique 
Cesar et hos aditus gladiis, hos ignibus arcet 
+ + < «© « . Ceca nocte carinis 
Insiluit Caesar semper feliciter usus 
Precipiti cursu bellorum et tempore rapto.”’ 


{ ‘* Jure cwesus existimetur,” says Suetonius, after a fair estimation of his charac- 
ter, and making use ofa phrase which was a formula in Livy’s time. ‘‘ Melium 
jure czesum pronuntiavit, etiam si regni crimine insons fuerit:” [lib. iv. cap. 48. | 
and which was continued in the legal judgments pronounced in justifiable homicides, 
such as killing housebreakers. See Sueton. in Vit. C. J, Cesar, with the commen- 
tary of Pitiscus, p. 184. 


“ Poco lontano dal detto luogo si scende ad un casaletto, del qualen e sono Pa- 
droni li Caffarelli, che con questo nome ὃ chiamato il luogo; vi ὃ una fontana sotto 
una gran volta antica, che al presente si gode, e li Romani vi vanno l’estate a ricre- 
arsi; nel pavimento di essa fonte si legge in un epitaffio essere quella la fonte di Ege- 
ria, dedicata alle ninfe, e questa, dice l’epitaffio, essere la medesima foute in cui fu 
convertita.”” Memorie, &c. ap. Nardini, pag. 13. He does not give the inscription. 


§ “In villa Justiniana extat ingens lapis quadratus solidus, in quo sculpta hee duo 
Ovidii carmina sunt :— 


228 HISTORICAL NOTES TO 


a stone in the Villa Giustiniani, which he seems to think had been brought from the 
same grotto. 

This grotto and valley were formerly frequented in summer, and _ particularly the 
first Sunday in May, by the modern Romans, who attached a salubrious quality to 
the fountain which trickles from an orifice at the bottom of the vault, and, overflowing 
the little pools, creeps down the matted grass into the brook below. ‘The brook is the 
Ovidian Almo, whose name and qualities are lost in the modern Aquataccio. . The. 
valley itself is called Valle di Caffarelli, from the dukes of that name who made over 
their fountain to the Pallavicini, with sixty rubbia of adjoining land. 

There can be little doubt that this long dell is the Kgerian valley of Juvenal, and 
the pausing place of Umbritius, notwithstanding the generality of his commentators 
have supposed the descent of the satirist and his friend to have been into the Arician 
Sabre Sica the nymph met Hippolitus, and where she was more peculiarly wor- 
shipped. 

The step from the Porta Capena to the Alban hill, fifteen miles distant, would be 
too considerable, unless we were to believe in the wild conjecture of Vossius, who 
makes that gate travel from its present station, where he pretends it was during the 
reign of the Kings, as far as the Arician grove, and then makes it recede to its old site 
with the shrinking city.* The tufo, or pumice, which the poet prefers to marble, is 
the substance composing the bank in which the grotto is sunk. 

_The modern topographers f find in the grotto the statue of the nymph, and nine 
niches for the Muses, and a late traveller { has discovered that the cave is restored 
to that simplicity which the poet regretted has been exchanged for injudicious orna- 
ment. But the headless statue is palpably rather a male than a nymph, and has 
none of the attributes ascribed to it at present visible. 'The nine Muses could hardly 
have stood in six niches; and Juvenal certainly does not allude to any individual! 
cave.§ Nothing can be collected from the satirist but that somewhere near the Porta 
Capena was a spot in which it was supposed Numa held nightly consultations with 
his nymph, and where there was a grove and a sacred fountain, and fanes once con- 
secrated to the Muses ; and that from this spot there was a descent into the valley of 
igeria, where were several artificial caves. It is clear that the statues of the Muses 
made no part of the decoration which the satirest thought misplaced in these-caves ; 
for he expressly assigns other fanes (delubra) to these divinities above the valley, 
and moreover tells us that they had been ejected to make room for the Jews. In 
fact, the little temple, now called that of Bacchus, was formerly thought to belong to 
the Muses, and Nardini|| places them ina poplar grove, which was in his time 
above the valley. 

It is probable, from the inscription and position, that the cave now shown may be 
one of the “‘ artificial caverns,” of which, indeed, there is another a little way higher 
up the valley, under a tuft of alder bushes: but a single grotto of Egeria is a mere 


‘* #Aigeria est que praebet aquas dea grata Cameenis 
[lla Numez conjunx consiliumque fuit.’ 


Qui lapis videtur ex eodem Egeria fonte, aut ejus vicinia isthuc comportatus.” Dia- 
rium Italic. p. 153, | 


* De Magnit. Vet. Rom. ap. Grev. Ant. Rom. tom. iv. p. 1507. 


{ Echinard, Descrizione di Roma e dell’ Agro Romano, corretto dall’ Abate 
Venuti, in Roma, 1750. They believe in the grotto and nymph. ‘‘ Simulacro di 
questo fonte, essendovi sculpite le acque a pie di 6550. 


t Classical Tour, chap. vi. p. 217. vol. ii. 


§ “ Substitit ad veteres arcus, madidamque Capenam, 
Hic ubi nocturnz Numa constituebat amice. 
Nune sacri fontis nemus, et delubra locantur 
Judzis quorum cophinum foeenamque supellex. 
Omnis enim populo mercedem pendere jussa est 
Arbor, et ejectis mendicat silva Cameenis. 

In vallem Egeriz descendimus, et speluncas 
Dissimiles veris : quanto preestantius esset 
Numen aque, viridi si margine clauderet undas 


Herba, nec ingenuum violarent marmora tophum.” 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 229 


modern invention, grafted upon the application of the epithet Egerian to these nym- 
phea in See and which might send us to look for the haunts of Numa upon the 
banks of the Thames. 

Our English Juvenal was not seduced into mistranslation by his acquaintance with 
Pope: he carefully preserves the correct plural — 


“ Thence slowly winding down the vale, we view 
The Egerian grots ; oh, how unlike the true!” 


The valley abounds with springs,* and over these springs, which the Muses might 
haunt from their neighbouring groves, Egeria presided : hence she was said to supply 
them with water ; and she was the nymph of the grottos through which the fountains 
were taught to flow. 

The whole of the monuments in the vicinity of the Egerian valley have received 
names at will, which have been changed at will. Venuti 7 owns he can see no 
traces of the temples of Jove, Saturn, Juno, Venus, and Diana, which Nardini found, 
or hoped to find. The mutatorium of Caracalla’s circus, the temple of Honour and 
Virtue, the temple of Bacchus, and, above all, the temple of the god Rediculus, are 
the antiquaries’ despair. 

The circus of Caracalla depends on a medal of that emperor cited by Fulvius 
Ursinus, of which the reverse shows a circus, supposed, however, by some to repre- 
sent the Cireus Maximus. It gives a very good idea of that place of exercise. ‘The 
soil has been but little raised, if we may judge from the small cellular structure at the 
end of the Spina, which was probably the chapel of the god Consus. This cell is 
half beneath the soil, as it must have been in the circus itself; for Dionysius 1 could 
not be persuaded to believe that this divinity was the Roman Neptune, because his 
altar was under ground. 


XXVIII. 
THE ROMAN NEMESIS. 


“ Great Nemesis! 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long.” 


Stanza cxxxu. lines 2 and 9. 


We read in Suetonius, that Augustus, from a warning received in a dream,§ coun- 
terfeited, once a year, the beggar, sitting before the gate of his palace with his hand 
hollowed and stretched out for charity. A statue formerly in the Villa Borghese, 
and which should be now at Paris, represents the Emperor in that posture of suppli- 
cation. The object of this self-degradation was the appeasement of Nemesis, the 
perpetual attendant on good fortune, of whose power the Roman conquerors were 
also reminded by certain symbols attached to their cars of triumph, ‘The symbols 
were the whip and the crotalo, which were discovered in the Nemesis of the Vatican. 
The attitude of beggary made the above statue pass for that of Belisarius: and until 
the criticism of Winkelmann || had rectified the mistake, one fiction was called in to 


*  Undique e solo aquz scaturiunt.”’? Nardim, lib. in, cap. 11}. 

7 Echinard, &c. Cic. cit. p. 297, 298. 

t Antiq. Rom. lib. 11. cap. xxxi. 

§ Sueton. in Vit. Augusti, cap. 91. Casaubon, in the note, refers to Plutarch’s 
Lives of Camillus and /Emilius Paulus, and also to his apophthegms, for the charac- 
ter of this deity. The hollowed hand was reckoned the last degree of degradation : 
and when the dead body of the prefect Rufinus was borne about in triumph by the 
people, the indignity was increased by putting his hand in that position. 

|| Storia delle Arti, &c. lib. xii. cap. iii. tom. ii. p. 422. Visconti calls the sta- 
tue, however, a Cybele. It is given in the Museo Pio-Clement. tom. 1. par. 40. The 
Abate Fea (Spiegazione dei, Rami. Storia, &c. tom. iii. p. 513.) calls it a Chrisip- 
pus. 


280 HISTORICAL NOTES TO 


support another. [11 was the same fear of the sudden termination of prosperity that 
made Amasis king of Egypt warn his friend Polycrates of Samos, that the gods loved 
those whose lives were chequered with good and evil fortunes. Nemesis was sup- 
posed to lie in wait particularly for the prudent ; that is, for those whose caution ren- 
dered them accessible only to mere accidents: and her first altar was raised on the 
banks of the Phrygian /#sepus by Adrastus, probably the prince of that name who 
killed the son of Craesus by mistake. Hence the goddess was called Adrastea.* 

The Roman Nemesis’ was sacred and august: there was a temple to her in the 
Palatine under the name of Rhamnusia:{ so great indeed was the propensity of the 
ancients to trust to the revolution of events, and to believe in the divinity of Fortune, 
that in the same Palatine there was a temple to the Fortune of the day.[ This is the 
last superstition which retains its hold over the human heart ; and, from concentrating 
in one object the credulity so natural to man, has always appeared strongest in those 
unembarrassed by other articles of belief. ‘The antiquaties have supposed this god- 
dess to be synonymous with Fortune and with Fate ;§ but it was in her vindictive 
guality that she was worshipped under the name of Nemesis. 


ΧΧΙΧ, 
GLADIATORS. 


He, their sire, ἢ 
Butcher’ io make a Roman holiday.” 
Stanza exli. lines 6 and 7. 


Gladiators were of two kinds, compelled and voluntary; and were supplied from 
several conditions : — from slaves sold for that purpose; from culprits ; from oarbarian 
captives either taken in war, and, after being led in triumph, set apart for the games, 
or those seized and condemned as rebels; also from free citizens, some fighting for 
hire (auctorati), others from a depraved ambition: at last even knights and senators 
were exhibited, — a disgrace of which the first tyrant was naturally the first inventor. || 
In the end, dwarfs, and even women, fought ; an enormity prohibited by Severus. 
Of these the most to be pitied undoubtedly were the barbarian captives ; and to this 
species a Christian writer 7 justly applies the epithet ‘‘ innocent,” to distinguish 
them from the professional gladiators. Aurelian and Claudius supplied great num- 
bers of these unfortunate victims; the one after his triumph, and the other on the 


* Dict. de Bayle, article Adrastea. 
} It is enumerated by the regionary Victor. ὲ 
{ Fortune hujusce diei, Cicero mentions her, de Legib. 


§ DEAE NEMESI 
SIVE FORTUNAE 
PISTORIVS 
RVGIANVS 
v. C. LEGAT. 
LEG. XIII. G. 
CORD. 
See Questiones Romans, &c. ap. Grev. Antiq. Roman. tom. v. p. 942. See also 
Muratori, Nov. Thesaur. Inscrip. Vet. tom. 1. p. 88, 89, where there are three Latin 
and one Greek inscription to Nemesis, and others to Fate. 
\| Julius Cesar, who rose by the fall of the aristocracy, brought Furius Leptinus 
and A. Calenus upon the arena. 
4 Tertullian, ‘* certe quidem et innocentes gladiatores in ludum veniunt, et vo- 
iuptatis publicz hosti fiant.” Just. Lips Saturn. Sermon. hb. ii, eap. 11. 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 231 


pretext of a rebellion.* No war, says Lipsius,f was ever so destructive to the hu- 
man race as these sports. In spite of the laws of Constantine and Constans, gladia- 
torial shows survived the old established religion more than seventy years ; but they 
owed their final extinction to the courage of a Christian. In the year 404, on the 
kalends of January, they were exhibiting the shows in the Flavian amphitheatre be- 
fore the usual immense concourse of people. Almachius or 'T'elemachus, an eastern 
monk, who had travelled to Rome intent on his holy purpose, rushed into the midst 
ot the arena, and endeavoured to separate the combatants. ‘The pretor Alypius, a 
person incredibly attached to these games,{ gave instant orders to the gladiators to 
slay him; and 'lelemachus gained the crown of martyrdom, and the title of saint, 
which surely has never either before or since been awarded for a more noble exploit. 
Honorius immediately abolished the shows, which were never afterwards revived. 
The story is told by ‘Theodoret ὃ and Cassiodorus,|] and seems worthy of credit not- 
withstanding its place in the Roman martyrology.{[ Besides the torrents of blood 
which flowed at the funerals, in the amphitheatres, the circus, the forums, and other 
public places, gladiators were introduced at feasts, and tore each other to pieces 
amidst the supper tables, to the great delight and applause of the guests. Yet Lip- 
sius permits himself to suppose the loss of courage, and the evident degeneracy of 
mankind, to be nearly connected with the abolition of these bloody spectacles,** 


XXX, 


‘© Here, where the Roman million’s blame or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd.” 


Stanza exlii. limes 5 and 6. 


When one gladiator wounded another, he shouted, ‘ he has it,” ““ hoc habet,” or 
‘‘ habet.” ‘The wounded combatant dropped his weapon, and advancing to the edge 
of the arena, supplicated the spectators. If he had fought well, the people saved 
him ; if otherwise, or as they happened to be inclined, they turned down their thumbs, 
and he was slain. They were occasionally so savage that they were impatient if a 
combat lasted longer than ordinary without wounds or death, The emperor’s pre- 
sence generally saved the vanquished ; and it is recorded as an instance of Cara- 
calla’s ferocity, that he sent those who supplicated him for life, in a spectacle, at 
Nicomedia, to ask the people; in other words, handed them over to be slain. A 
similar ceremony is observed at the Spanish bull-fights. The magistrate presides ; 
and after the horsemen and piccadores have fought the bull, the matadore steps for- 
ward and bows to him for permission to kill the animal. If the bull has done his duty 
by killing two or three horses, or aman, which last is rare, the people interfere 
with shouts, the ladies wave their handkerchiefs, and the animal is saved. The 
wounds and death of the horses are accompanied with the loudest acclamations, and 
many gestures of delight, especially from the female portion of the audience, including 


* ‘Vopiscus, in vit. Aurel. and in vit. Claud, ibid. 


_ T_ Credo imo scio nullum bellum tantam cladem vastitiemque generi humano 
mtulisse, quam hos ad voluptatem ludos.” Just. Lips. ibid. lib, i. cap. xii. 


1 Augustinus (lib, vi, confess. cap, vill.) “‘ Alypium suum gladiatorii spectaculi 
inhiatu incredibiliter abreptum,” scribit. ib, lib. i. cap. xii. 


§ Hist. Eccles. cap. xxvi. lib. ν΄. 
|| Cassiod, Tripartita, ]. x. 6. xi. Saturn. ib. ib. 


7 Baronius, ad. ann. et in notis ad Martyrol. Rom. I. Jan. See — Marangoni 
delle memorie sacre e profane dell’ Anfiteatro Flavio, p. 25. edit. 1746. 


** “ Quod? non tu Lipsi momentum aliquod habuisse censes ad virtutem ἡ Mag- 
num. ‘Tempora nostra, nosque ipsos videamus. Oppidum ecce unum alterumve 
captum, direptum est; tumultus circa nos, non in nobis: et tamen concidimus et tur- 
bamur. Ubi rcbur, ubi tot per annos meditata sapientiz studia ? ubi ille animus qui 
possit dicere, δὲ fractus illabutur orbis ?” &c. ibid. lib. ii. cap. xxv. The prototype 
of Mr. Windham’s panegyric on bull-baiting. 


232 HISTORICAL NOTES TO 


i 


those of the gentlest blood. Every thing depends on habit. The author of Childe 
Harold, the writer of this note, and one or two other Englishmen, who have certainly 
in other days borne the sight of a pitched battle, were, during the summer of 1809, in 
the governor’s box at the great amphitheatre of Santa Maria, opposite to Cadiz. 
The death of one or two horses completely satisfied their curiosity. A gentleman 
present, observing them shudder and look pale, noticed that unusual reception of so 
delightful a sport to some young ladies, who stared and smiled, and continued their 
applauses as another horse fell bleeding to the ground. One bull killed three horses 
off his own horns. He was saved by acclamations, which were redoubled when it 
was known he belonged to a priest. 

An Englishman, who can be much pleased with seeing two men beat themselves 
to pieces, cannot bear to look at a horse galloping round an arena with his bowels 
trailing on the ground, and turns from the spectacle and the spectators with ,horror 
and disgust. 


XXXI. 
THE ALBAN HILL. 


“ And afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latin coast,” &c. &c. 


Stanza clxxiv. lines 2, 3, and 4. 


The whole declivity of the Alban hill is of unrivalled beauty, and from the convent 
on the highest pomt, which has succeeded to the temple of the Latian Jupiter, the ~ 
prospect embraces all the objects alluded to in the cited stanza; the Mediterranean ; 
the whole scene of the latter half of the Aineid, and the coast from beyond the 
mouth of the Tiber to the headland of Circzeum and the Cape of Terracina. 

The site of Cicero’s villa may be supposed either at the Grotta Ferrata, or at the 
Tusculum of Prince Lucien Buonaparte. 

The former was thought some years ago the actual site,as may be seen from Mid- 
dleton’s Life of Cicero. At present it has lost something of its credit, except for the 
Domenichinos. Nine monks of the Greek order live there, and the adjoining villa is 
a cardinal’s summer-house. The other villa, called Rufinella, is on the summit of 
the hill above Frascati, and many rich remains of Tusculum have been found 
there, besides seventy-two statues of different merit and preservation, and seven 
busts. 

From the same eminence are seen the Sabine hills, embosomed in which lies the 
long valley of Rustica. There are several circumstances which tend to establish the 
identity of this valley with the ‘“ Ustica” of Horace ; and it seems possible that the 
mosaic pavement which the peasants uncover by throwing up the earth of a vineyard 
may belong to his villa. Rustica is pronounced short, not according to our stress 
upon — ““ Ustice cubantis.” — It is more rational to think that we are wrong than 
that the inhabitants of this secluded valley have changed their tone in this word. 'The 
addition of the consonant prefixed is nothing: yet it is necessary to be aware that 
Rustica may be a modern name which the peasants may have caught from the an- 
tiquaries. 

The villa, or the mosaic, is in a vineyard on a knoll covered with chestnut trees. A 
stream runs down the valley, and although it is not true, as said in the guide books, that 
this stream is called Licenza, yet there is a village on a rock at the head of the valley 
which is so denominated, and which may have taken its name from the Digentia. 
Licenza contains 700 inhabitants. Ona peak a little way beyond is Civitella, con- 
taining 300. On the banks of the Anio, a little before you turn up into Valle Rus- 
tica, to the left, about an hour from the villa, is a town called Vicovaro, another 
favourable coincidence with the Vazia of the poet. At the end of the valley, towards 
the Anio, there is a bare hill, crowned with a little town calied Bardela. At the 
foot of this hill the rivulet of Licenza flows, and is almost absorbed in a wide sandy 
bed before it reaches the Anio. Nothing can be more fortunate for the lines of the 
poet, whether in a metaphorical or direct sense :— 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 232 


‘¢ Me quotiens reficit gelidus Digentia rivus, 
Quem Mandela bibit rugosus frigore pagus.” 


The stream is clear high up the valley, but before it reaches the hill of Bardela looks 
green and yellow like a sulphur rivulet. 

Rocca Giovane, a ruined village in the hills, half an hour’s walk from the vinee 
yard where the pavement is shown, does seem to be the site of the fane of Vacuna, 
and an inscription found there tells that this temple of the Sabine Victory was re~ 

. paired by Vespasian.* With these helps, and a position corresponding exactly to 
every thing which the poet has told us of his retreat, we may feel tolerably secure of 
our site, ἢ 

The hill which should be Lucretilis is called Campanile, and by following up the 
rivulet to the pretended Bandusia, you come to the roots of the higher mountain 
Gennaro. Singularly enough, the only spot of ploughed land in the whole valley is 
on the knoll where this Bandusia rises. 


“ .,.. tu frigus amabile 
Fessis vomere tauris 
Prebes, et pecori vago.” 


The peasants show another spring near the mosaic pavement which they call 
“ Oradina,” and which flows down the hills into a tank, or mill-dam, and thence 
trickles over into the Digentia, 

But we must not hope 


** To trace the Muses upwards to their spring,” 


by exploring the windings of the romantic valley in search of the Bandusian fountain. 
It seems strange that any one should have thought Bandusia a fountain of the 
Digentia — Horace has not let drop a word of it; and this immortal spring has in 
fact been discovered im possession of the holders of many good things in Italy, the 
monks. It was attached to the church of St. Gervais and Protais near Venusia, 
where it was most likely to be found.{ We shall not be so lucky as a late traveller 
in finding the occasional pine still pendent on the poetic villa. There is not a pine in 
the whole valley, but there are two cypresses, which he evidently took, or mistook, 
for the tree in the ode.{ The truth is, that the pine 1s now, as it was in the days of 
Virgil, a garden tree, and it was not at all likely to be found in the craggy acclivities 
of the valley of Rustica. Horace probably had one of them in the orchard close 
above his farm, immediately overshadowing his villa, not on the rocky heights at 
some distance from his abode. The tourist may have easily supposed himself to 
have seen this pine figured in the above cypresses ; for the orange and lemon trees 
which throw such a bloom over his description of the royal gardens at Naples, unless 
they have been since displaced, were assuredly only acacias and other common gar- 
den shrubs.§ 


XXXII. 
EUSTACE’S CLASSICAL TOUR. 


The extreme disappointment experienced by choosing the Classical Tourist as a 
guide in Italy must be allowed to find vent in a few observations, which, it is asserted 


* IMP. CASAR VESPASIANVS 
PONTIFEX MAXIMVS. TRIB. 
POTEST. CENSOR. ZDEM 
VICTORIA. VETVSTATE ILLAPSAM. 
SVA. IMPENSA. RESTITVIT. 


} See — Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto, p. 43 
1 See — Classical Tour, &c. chap. vii. p. 250. vol. ii. 


§ ‘Under our windows, and bordering on the beach, is the royal garden, laid out in 
parterres, and walks shaded by rows of orange trees.” Classical Tour, &c. chap. 
xi, vol. 11. oct. 365. 


234 HISTORICAL NOTES TO 


without fear of contradiction, will be confirmed by every one who has selected the 
same conductor through the same country. This author is in fact one of the most 
maccurate, unsatisfactory writers that have in our times attained a temporary repu- 
tation, and is very seldom to be trusted even when he speaks of objects which he must 
presumed to have seen. His errors, from the simple exaggeration to the downright 
mis-statement, are so frequent as to induce a suspicion that he had either never visiied 
the spots described, or had trusted to the fidelity of former writers.. Indeed the Clas- 
sical Tour has every characteristic of a mere compilation of former notices, strung 
together upon a very slender thread of personal observation, and swelled out by those 
decorations which are so easily supplied by a systematic adoption of all the commen- 
places of praise, applied to every thing, and therefore signifying nothing. 

Tne style which one person thinks cloggy and cumbrous, and unsuitable, may be 
to the taste of others, and such may experience some salutary excitement in plough- 
ing through the periods of the Classical Tour. It must be said, however, that polish 
and weight are apt to beget an expectation of value. It is amongst the pains of the 
damned to toil up a climax with a huge round stone. 

The tourist had the choice of his words, but there was no such latitude allowed to 
that of his sentiments. The love of virtue and of liberty, which must have distm- 
guished the character, certainly adorns the pages of Mr. Eustace, and the gentle- 
manly spirit, so recommendatory either in_an author or his productions, is very con- 
spicuous throughout the Classical Tour. But these generous qualities are the foliage 
of such a performance, and may be spread about it so prominently, and profusely as 
to embarrass those who wish to see and find the fruit at hand. The unction of the 
divine, and the exhortations of the moralist, may have made this work something more 
and better than a book of travels, but they have not made it a book of travels ; and 
this observation applies more especially to that enticing methed of instruction conveyed 
by the perpetual introduction of the same Gallic Helot to reel and bluster before the 
rising generation, and terrify it nto decency by the display of all the excesses of the 
revolution. An animosity against atheists and regicides in general, and Frenchmen 
specifically, may be honourable, and may be useful as a record; but that antidote 
should either be administered in any work rather than a tour, or, atleast, should be 
served up apart, and not so mixed with the whole mass of information and reflection, as 
to give a bitterness toevery page: for who would choose to have the antipathies of 
any man, however just, for his travelling companions? A tourist, unless he aspires 
to the credit of prophecy, is not answerable for the changes which may take place in 
the country which he describes ; but his reader may very fairly esteem al] his politicai 
portraits and deductions as so much waste paper, the moment they cease to assist, 
and more particularly if they obstruct, his actual survey. 

Neither encomium nor accusation of any government, or governors, is meant to be 
here offered ; but it is stated as an incontrovertible fact, that the change operated, 
either by the address of the late imperial system, or by the disappointment of every 
expectation by those who have succeeded to the Italian thrones, has been so con- 
siderable, and is so apparent, as not only to put Mr. Eustace’s antigallican philippics 
entirely out of date, but even to throw some suspicion upon the competency and can- 
dour of the author himself. A remarkable example may be found in the mstance of 
Bologna, over whose papal attachments, and consequent desolation, the tourist pours 
forth such strains of condolence and revenge, made louder by the borrowed trumpet of 
Mr. Burke. Now Bologna is at this moment, and has been for some years, notori- 
ous amongst the states of Italy for its attachment to revolutionary principles, and was 
almost the only city which made any demonstrations in favour of the unfortunate 
Murat. This change may, however, have been made since Mr, Eustace visited 
this country ; but the traveller whom he has thrilled with horror at the projected 
stripping of the copper from the cupola of St. Peter’s, must be much relieved to find 
that sacrilege out of the power of the French, or any other plunderers, the cupola be- 
ing covered with lead.* 

If the conspiring voice of otherwise rival critics had not given considerable currency 
to the Classical Tour, it would have been unnecessary to warn the reader, that how- 


* “ What, then, will be the astonishment, or rather the horror, of my reader, when I 
inform him........ the French Committee turned its attention to Saint Peter’s 
and employed a company of Jews to estimate and purchase the gold, silver, and bronze 
that adorn the inside of the edifice, as well as the coppe that covers the vaults and 
dome on the outside.” Chap. iv. p. 130. vol. ἢ, The story about the Jew is posi 
tively denied at Rome. 


CANTO THE FOURTH. 235 


ever it may adorn his library, it will be of little or no service to him in his carriage ; 
said if the judgment of those critics had hitherto been suspended, no attempt would 
have been made to anticipate their decision. As it is, those who stand in the relation 
of posterity to Mr. Eustace may be permitted to appeal from contemporary praises, 
and are perhaps more likely to be just in proportion as the causes of love and hatred 
are the farther removed, This appeal had, in some measure, been made before the 
above remarks were written; for one of the most respectable of the Florentine pub- 
hishers, who had been persuaded by the repeated inquiries of those on their journey 
southwards to reprint a cheap edition of the Classical Tour, was, by the concurring 
advice of returning travellers, induced to abandon his design, although he had already 
arranged his types and paper, and had struck off one or two of the first sheets. 

The writer of these notes would wish to part (like Mr. Gibbon) on good terms 
with the Pope and the Cardinals, but he does not think it necessary to extend the 
same discreet silence to their humble partisans. 


blige 2 


Ὁ 


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ae | rat πο νὴ μ᾿ ΝΑ ae Sig) + ἐς TS a ἝΝ ὉΦΝΟΣΕΑΊΑΙ ἀν pe ney a, 
merch nt re oe ἈΑῸ γεν ft ba , Hiss pa, ite? Da ais wiles 1 ; 
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poet oe ae oy ah Γ BE ii 
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One fatal remembrance—one sorrow that throws 
‘Its bleak shade alike o’er our joys and our woes— © 


To which Life nothing darker nor brighter can bring “ ‘ 
For which joy hath no woes ae affliction ages. 
Moore. τς 
4. ; i 
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Ἧ 


i Au 


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yi 


oe en ee 
De ae δε : 


τ 


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TO 
SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. 

AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN 
OF ADMIRATION OF HIS GENIUS, 
RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, 

ANP GRATITUDE FOR HiS FRIENDSHIP, 
THIS PRODUCTION IS INSRIBED 
BY HIS OBLIGED 
AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT 


BYRON. 


London, May, 1513 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


Tue Tale which these disjointed fragments present 15 founded 
upon circumstances now less common in the East than formerly ; 
either because the ladies are more circumspect than in the “ olden 
time,” or because the Christians have better fortune, or less 
enterprise. The story, when entire, contained the adventures of 
a female slave, who was thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into 
the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, 
at the time the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of 
Venice, and soon after the Arnauts were beaten back from the 
Morea, which they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the 
Russian invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, on being 
refused the plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment οἵ that 
enterprise, and to the desolation of the Morea, during which the 
cruelty exercised on all sides was unparalleled even in the annals 


of the faithful. 


ΠῚ OL. Ill.—-R 


sl τᾷ, μηκσίδα ratind, oved: dapitviad vot ganna 19 Soni: 
4 a buninigea etitaa θεν Yeo oak! ΠΝ ἢ 
pee pent Arnage rs error ἘΒ, paler: qovala. ήτο ἐν ἢ 
wih aes) Σ Ὁ : 
ag οἷς aslo siehecll cine αὐπθμνποῦνα aova-bas οοϊαο ἡ 
a pn sa ot 2k ‘bogarnr' ἡ qodt visighy snore. 

ἫΝ Mj, odlgto/poimonoh. ont; ὑποίκιογηὶ “etre 


ΠΕῚ 
ΤΠ 
Ξ. 
ΠῚ 
Be 
Ε 


THE GIAOUR. 


No breath of air to break the wave 

That rolls below the Athenian’s grave, 
That tomb (*) which, gleaming o’er the cliff, 
First greets the homeward-veering skiff 
High o’er the land he saved in vain : 

When shall such hero live again ¢ 


* * * * * 

\ . 
, {4% Fair clime ! where every season smiles 
Yt ae Benignant o’er those blessed isles, Ϊ 
» ἢ} Which, seen from far Colonna’s height, 


? MAE, 
ere" Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 
ee ΜΡ f And lend to loneliness delight. 
~~ There, mildly dimpling, Ocean’s cheek ° 
Reflects the tints of many a peak 
Caught by the laughing tides that lave 
These Edens of the eastern wave ; ; 
And if at times a transient breeze 
Break the blue crystal of the seas, | 
Or sweep one blossom from the trees, ὶ 
How welcome is each gentle air Ι 
That wakes and wafts the odours there! ὦ 
For there —the Rose o’er crag or vale, ' 
Sultana of the Nightingale, (*) ἱ 
The maid for whom his melody, 
His thousand songs are heard on high, 
Blooms blushing to her lover’s tale : 
His queen, the garden queen, his Rose, 
Unbent by winds, unchill’d by snows, 
- Far from the winters of the west, 
By every breeze and season blest, 
Returns the sweets by Nature given, 
In softest incense back to heaven ; 


Pate : δὴ 
o 
oe 

ae ἔπ & 7 


<s 


1) A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some supposed the sepulchre 


of Themistocles. 
(2) ‘The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a well-known Persian fable. 


If L mistake not, the ““ Bulbul οἵ ἃ thousand tales” is one of his appellations. 


244 


(1) 


THE GIAOUR. 


And grateful yields that smiling sky 

Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 

And many a summer flower is there, 
And many a shade that love might share, 
And many a grotto, meant for rest 

That holds the pirate for a guest ; 
Whose bark in sheltering cove below 


. Lurks for the passing peaceful prow, 


Till the gay mariner’s guitar (°) 

Is heard, and seen the evening star 

Then stealing with the muffled oar 

Far shaded by the rocky shore, 

Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, 
And turn to groans his roundelay. 
Strange — that where Nature lov’d to trace 
As if for Gods, a dwelling-place, 

And every charm and grace hath mix’d 
Within the paradise she fix’d, 

There man, enamour’d of distress, 
Should mar it into wilderness, 

And trample, brute-like, o’er each flower 
That takes not one laborious hour ; 

Nor claims the culture of his hand 

To bloom along the fairy land, 

But springs as to preclude his care 

And sweetly woos him — but to spare ! 
Strange — that where all is peace beside, 
There passion riots in her pride, 

And lust and rapine wildly reign 

To darken o’er the fair domain. 

It is as though the fiends prevail’d 
Against the seraphs they assail’d, 

And, fixed-on heavenly thrones, should dwell! 
-The freed ivheritors of hell ; 


So soft the scene, so form’d for joy, 
ἃ So curst the tyrants that destroy ! 


He who hath bent him o’er the dead 
Ere the first day of death is fled, 
The first dark day of nothingness, 
The last of danger and distress, 
(Before Decay’s effacing fingers 
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) 


The guitar is the constant amusement of the Greek sailor by night: with a 


steady fair wind, and during a calm, it is accompanied always by the voice. and often 


by dancing. 


THE GIAOUR. 245 


And mark’d the mild angelic air, 
The rapture of repose that ’s there, 
The fix’d yet tender traits that streak 
The languor of the placid cheek, 
And — but for that sad shrouded eye, 

That fires not. wins not, weeps not, now, 

And but for that chill, changeless brow, 
Where cold Obstruction’s apathy (*) 
Appals the gazing mourner’s heart, 
As if to him it could impart 
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 
Yes, but for these, and these alone 
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, 
He still might doubt the tyrant’s power ; 
So fair, so calm, so softly seal’d. 
The first, last look by death reveal’d ! (*) 
Such is the aspect of this shore ; 
Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! 
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 
We start, for soul is wanting there. 
Hers is the loveliness in death, 
That parts not quite with parting breath ; 
But beauty with that fearful bloom, 
That hue which haunts it to the tomb, 
Expression’s last receding ray, 
A gilded halo hovering round decay, 
The farewell beam of Feeling past away ! 

Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, 
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth ! 


Clime of the unforgotten brave ! 
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 
Was Freedom’s home or Glory’s grave ! 
Shrine of the mighty! can it be, 

That this is all remains of thee 7 
Approach, thou craven crouching slave : 
Say, is not this Thermopyle 7 


{1} *© Ay, but to die and go we know not where, 
To lie in cold obstruction.” 
Measure for Measure, Act 11. 130, Se. 2. 


(2) I trust that few of my readers have ever had an opportunity of witnessing what 
is here attempted m description, but those who have, will probably retain a painful 
remembrance of that singular beauty which pervades, with few exceptions, the fea- 
tures of the dead, a few hours, and but for a few hours, after “ the spirit is not there.” 
{t is to be remarked, in cases of violent death by gun-shot wounds, the expression is 
always that of tanguor, whatever the natural energy of the sufferer’s character: but 
im death from a stab the countenance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, and the 
mind its bias to the last. 


946 THE GIAOUR. 


These waters blue that round you lave, 
Oh servile offspring of the free — 

Pronounce what sea, what shore is this? 
The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! 
These scenes, their story not unknown, 
Arise, and make again your own; 
Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
The embers of their former fires ; 
And he who in the strife expires 
Will add to theirs a name of fear, 
That Tyranny shall quake to hear, 
And leave his sons a hope, a fame, 
They too will rather die than shame : 
For Freedom’ battle once begun, 
Bequeath’d by bleeding Sire to Son, 
Though baffled oft is ever won. 
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, 
Attest it many a deathless age ! 
While kings, in dusty darkness hid, 
Have left a nameless pyramid, 
Thy heroes, though the general doom 

- Hath swept the column from their tomb, 
A mightier monument command, 
The mountains of their native land! 
There points thy Muse to stranger’s eye 
The graves of those that cannot die ! 
’T were long to tell, and sad to trace, 
Each step from splendour to disgrace ; 
Enough — no foreign foe could quell 
Thy soul, till from itself it fell ; 
Yes! Self-abasement paved the way 
To villain-bonds and despot-sway. 


What can he tell who treads thy shore ? 
No legend of thine olden time, 

No theme on which the muse might soar 

High as thine own in days of yore, 
When man was worthy of thy clime. 

The hearts within thy valleys bred, 

The fiery souls that might have led 
Thy sons to deeds sublime, 

Now crawl from cradle to the grave, 

Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave, (ἢ) 
And callous, save to crime ; 


(1) Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga, (the slave of the seraglio and gvar- 


THE GIAOUR. 247 


Stain’d with each evil that pollutes 
Mankind, where least above the brutes ; 
Without even savage virtue blest, 
Without one free or valiant breast, 

Stull to the neighbouring ports they waft 
Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft ; 

In this the subtle Greek is found, 

For this, and this alone, renown’d. 

In vain might Liberty invoke 

The spirit to its bondage broke, 

Or raise the neck that courts the yoke : 
No more her sorrows I bewail, 

Yet this will be a mournful tale, 

And they who listen may believe, 


Who heard it first had cause to grieve. 
& * * * 2k # 


Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, 
The shadows of the rocks advancing, 
Start on the fisher’s eye like boat 
Of island-pirate or Mainote ; 

And fearful for his light caique, 

ie shuns the near but doubtful creek : 
‘Though worn and weary with his toil, 
And cumber’d with his scaly spoil, 
Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, 
Till Port Leone’s safer shore 
Receives him by the lovely light 


That best becomes an Kastern night 


Who thundering comes on blackest steed, 
With slacken’d bit and hoof of speed ? 
Beneath the clattering iron’s sound . 

The cavern’d echoes wake around 

In lash for lash, and bound for bound ; 

The foam that streaks the courser’s side 
Seems gather’d from the ocean-tide : 

Though weary waves are sunk to rest, 
There’s none within his rider’s breast ; 

And though to-morrow’s tempest lower, 

Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour ! (') 


— ll ercvO07hFf nt es ee ee 


dian of the women,) who appoints the Waywode. A pander and eunuch — these 
are not polite, yet true appellations — now governs the governor of Athens! 


ι 1) Infidel. 


248 THE GiAOUR. 


I know thee not, I loathe thy race, 

But in thy lineaments I trace 

What time shall strengthen, not efface : 
Though young and pale, that sallow front 
Is scathed by fiery passion’s brunt ; 
Though bent on earth thine evil eye, 

As meteor-like thou glidest by, 

Right well I view and deem thee one 
Whom Othman’s sons should slay or shun. 


On — on he hastened, and he drew 
My gaze of wonder as he flew: 
Though like a demon of the night 
He pass’d, and vanish’d from my sight, 
His aspect and his air impress’d 
A troubled memory on my breast, 
And long upon my startled ear 
Rung his dark courser’s hoofs of fear. 
He spurs his steed ; he nears the steep, 
That, jutting, shadows o’er the deep ; 
He winds around ; he hurries by ; 
The rock relieves him from mine eye ; 
For well I ween unwelcome he 
Whose glance is fix’d on those that flee ; 
And not a star but shines too bright 
On him who takes such timeless flight. 
He wound along; but ere he pass’d 
One glance he snatch’d, as if his last, 
A moment check’d his wheeling steed, 
A moment breathed him from his speed, 
A moment on his stirrup stood — 
Why looks he o'er the olive-wood 2 
The crescent glimmers on the hill, 
The mosque’s high lamps are quivering still : 
Though too remote for sound to wake 
In echoes of the far tophaike, (Ὁ) 
The flashes of each joyous peal 
Are seen to prove the Moslem’s zeal 
To-night, set Rhamazani’s sun ; 
To-night the Bairam feast ’s begun ; 
To-night — but who and what art thou, 
Of foreign garb and fearful brow? 
And what are these to thine or thee, 
That thou shouldst either pause or flee ? 

(1) “ Tophaike,” musket. — The Bairam is announced by the cannon at sunset . 


the illumination of the Mosques, and the firing of all kinds of small arms, loaded with 
ball, proclaim it during the night. 


THE GIAOUR. 249 


He stood — some dread was on his face, 
Soon hatred settled in its place 

It rose not with the reddening flush 

Of transient Anger’s darkening blush, 
But pale as marble o’er the tomb, 
Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. 
His brow was bent, his eye was glazed ; 
He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, 
And sternly shook his hand on high,” 

As doubting to return or fly: 

Impatient of his flight delay’d, 

Here loud his raven charger neigh’d — 
Down glanced that hand, and grasp’d his blade ; 
That sound had burst his waking dream, 
As Slumber starts at owlet’s scream. 
The spur hath lanced his courser’s sides ; 
Away, away, for life he rides ; 

Swift as the hurl’d on high jerreed (*) 
Springs to the touch his startled steed : 
The rock is doubled, and the shore 
Shakes with the clattering tramp no more ; 
The crag is won, no more is seen 

His Christian crest and haughty mien. 
Twas but an instant he restrain’d 

That fiery barb so sternly rein’d: 

*Twas but a moment that he stood 

Then sped as if by death pursued : 

But in that instant o’er his soul 

Winters of Memory seem’d to roll, 

And gather in that drop of time 

A life of pain, an age of crime. 

O’er him who loves, or hates, or fears, 
Such moment pours the grief of years: 
What felt he then, at once opprest 

By all that most distracts the breast ? 
That pause, which ponder’d o’er his fate, 
Oh, who its dreary length shall date ! 
Though in Time’s record nearly nought, 
It was Eternity to Thought ! 

For infinite as boundless space 

The thought that Conscience must embrace, 


{1) Jerreed, or Djerrid, a blunted Turkish javelin, which is darted from horseback 
with great force and precision. It is a favourite exercise of the Mussulmans ; but I 
know not if it can be called a manly one, since the most expert in the art are the 
Black Eunuchs of Constantinople. I think, next to these, a Mamlouk at Smyrna 
was the most skilful that came within my observation. 


250. ὁ THE GIAOUR. 


Which in itself can comprehend 
Woe without name, or hope, or end. 


The hour is past, the Giaour is gone ; 
And did he fly or fall alone ? 
Woe to that hour-he came or went! 
The curse for Hassan’s sin was sent, 
To turn a palace to a tomb; 
He came, he went, like the Simoom, (’) 
That harbinger of fate and gloom, 
Beneath whose widely-wasting breath 
The very cypress droops to death — 
Dark tree, still sad when cthers’ grief is fled, 
The only constant mourner o’er the dead! 


The steed is vanish’d from the stall , 
No serf is seen in Hassan’s hall ; 
The lonely spider’s thin gray pall 
Waves slowly widening o’er the wall ; 
The Bat builds in his Haram bower; 
And in the fortress of his power 
The Owl usurps the beacon-tower ; 
The wild-dog howls o’er the fountain’s brim 
With baffled thirst, and famine, grim ; 
For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, 
Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread. 
Twas sweet of yore to see it play, 
And chase the sultriness of day, 
As, springing high the silver dew 
In whirls fantastically flew, 
And flung luxurious coolness round 
The air, and verdure o’er the ground. 
*T was sweet, when cloudless stars were bright. 
To view the wave of watery light, 
And hear its melody by night, 
And oft had Hassan’s childhood play’d 
Around the verge of that cascade ; 
And oft upon his mother’s breast 
That sound had harmonized his rest ; 
And oft had Hassan’s Youth along 
Its bank been soothed by Beauty’s song ; 
And softer seemed each melting tone 
Of Music mingled with its own. 


(1) The blast of the desert, fatal to every thing living, and often alluded to in eas- 
tern poetry. 


Or 
- 


THE GIAOUR. 2 


But ne’er shall Hassan’s Age repose 
Along the brink at Twilight’s close : 

The stream that fill’d that font is fled — 
The blood that warm’d his heart is shed ! 
And here no more shall human. voice 

Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice ; "Ὁ 

The last sad note that swell’d the gale@ 
Was woman’s wildest funeral wail : 

That quench’d in silence, all is still, 

But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill : 
Though raves the gust, and floods the rain, 
No hand shall close its clasp again. 

On desert sands ’t were joy to scan 

‘The rudest steps of fellow man, 

So here the very voice of Grief 

Might wake an Echo like relief — 

At least ’t would say, “ All are not gone 5 
‘ There lingers Life, though but in one —” 
For many a gilded chamber ’s there, 
Which Solitude might well forbear ; 
Within that dome as yet Decay 

Hath slowly work’d her cankering way — 
But gloom is gathered o’er the gate, 

Nor there the Fakir’s self will wait ; 

Nor there will wandering Dervise stay 

For bounty cheers not his delay ; 

Nor there will weary stranger halt 

To bless the sacred “ bread and salt.” (Ὁ) 
Alike must Wealth and Poverty 

Pass heedless and unheeded by, 

For Courtesy and Pity died 

With Hassan on the mountain side. 

His roof, that refuge unto men, 

Is Desolation’s hungry den. 

The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from labour, 


Since his turban was cleft by the infidel’s sabre ! (Ὁ) 


I hear the sound of coming feet, 
But not a voice mine ear to greet ; 


(1) To partake of food, to break bread and salt with your host, ensures the safety 
of the guest: even though an enemy, his person from that moment is sacred. 


(2) I need hardly observe, that Charity and Hospitality are the first duties enjoined 
by Mahomet; and, to say truth, very generally practised by his disciples. The first 
praise that can be bestowed on a chief, is a panegryic on his bounty ; the next, on his 


252 THE GIAOUR. 


More near — each turban I can scan, 

And silver-sheathed ataghan ; (*) 

The foremost of the band is seen 

An Emir by his garb of green: (*) 

‘Ho! who art thou?” — * This low salam (’) 
Replies of Moslem faith I am.”— 

« ΤῚΦ burthen ye so gently bear, 

Seems one that claims your utmost care, 

And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, 
My humble bark would gladly wait.” 


*¢ Thou speakest sooth : thy skiff unmoor, 
And waft us from the silent shore ; 
Nay, leave the sail still furl’d, and ply 
The nearest oar that ’s scatter’d by ; 
And midway to those rocks where sleep 
The channel’d waters dark and deep. 
Rest from your task — so— bravely done, 
Our course has been right swiftly run ; 
Yet ’tis the longest voyage, I trow, 
That one of i 

* Ὡς * * * * 


Sullen it plung’d, and slowly sank, 
The calm wave rippled to the bank ; 
I watch’d it as it sank, methought 
Some motion from the current caught . 
Bestirr’d it more, —’twas but the beam 
That chequer’d o’er the living stream : 
I gazed, till vanishing from view, 
Like lessening pebble it withdrew ; 
Still less and less, a speck of white 
That gemm’d the tide, then mock’d the sight ; 
And all its hidden secrets sleep, 
Known but to Genii of the deep, 
Which, trembling in their coral caves, 


They dare not whisper to the waves. 
x * * * * # 


(1) The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in the belt, in a metal scabbard, 
generally of silver ; and, among the wealthier, gilt, or of gold. 


(2) Green is the privileged colour of the prophet’s numerous pretended descen- 


dants; with them, as here, faith (the family inheritance) is supposed to supersede 
the necessity of good works: they are the worst of a very indifferent brood. 


(3) “*Salamaleikoum ! aleikoum ! salam!” peace be with you ; be with you peace— 
the salutation reserved for the faithful: —to a Christian, ‘* Urlarula,” a good jour- 
ney ; or “‘ saban hiresem, saban serula ;”’ good morn, good even ; and sometimes, *‘ may 
your end be happy ;” are the usual salutes, . ; ὥ 


THE GIAOUR. 253 


As rising on its purple wing 
᾿ The insect-queen (’) of eastern spring, 

O’er emerald meadows of Kashmeer 

Invites the young pursuer near, 

And leads him on from flower to flower 

A weary chase and wasted hour, 

Then leaves him, as it soars on high, 

With panting heart and tearful'eye : 

So Beauty lures the full-grown child, 

With hue as bright, and wing as wild ; 

A chase of idle hopes and fears, 

Begun in folly, closed in tears. 

If won, to equal ills betray’d, 

Woe waits the insect and the maid ; 

A life of pain, the loss of peace, 

From infant’s play, and man’s caprice : 
"The lovely toy so fiercely sought 
\\Hath lost its charm by being caught, 

For every touch that woo’d its stay 

Hath brush’d its brightest hues away, 

Till, charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 

Tis left to fly or fall alone. 

With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, 

Ah! where shall either victim rest ? 

Can this with faded pinion soar 

From rose to tulip as before? 

Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, 

Find joy within her broken bower ? 

No: gayer insects fluttering by 

Ne’er droop the wing o’er those that die, 

And lovelier things have mercy shown 

To every failing but their own, 

And every woe a tear can claim 

Except an erring sister’s shame. 

* # * * * # 


The Mind, that broods o’er guilty woes, 
Is like the Scorpion girt by fire, 

In circle narrowing as it glows, 

The flames around their captive close, 

Till inly search’d by thousand throes, 
And maddening in her ire, 

One sad and sole relief she knows, 

The sting she nourish’d for her foes, 


(1) The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most rare and beautiful of the 
species, 


254 THE GIAOUR. 


Whose venom never yet was vain, 

Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, 
And darts into her desperate brain ; 

So do the dark in soul expire, 

Or live like Scorpion girt by fire ; (ἢ) 

So writhes the mind Remorse hath riven, 
Unfft for earth, undoom’d for heaven, 
Darkness above, despair beneath, 


Around it flame, within it death ! 


Black Hassan from the Haram flies, 
Nor bends on woman’s form his eyes ; 
The unwonted chase each hour employs, 
Yet shares he not the hunter’s joys. 

Not thus was Hassan wont to fly 
When Leila dwelt in his Serai. 
Doth Leila there no longer dwell ? 
That tale can only Hassan tell : 
Strange rumours in our city say 
Upon that eve she fled away, 
When Rhamazan’s (7) last sun was set, 
And flashing from each minaret 
Millions of lamps proclaim’d the feast 
Of Bairam through the boundless East. 
’T'was then she went as to the bath, 

‘ Which Hassan vainly search’d in wrath ; 
For she was flown her master’s rage 
In likeness of a Georgian page, 
And far beyond the Moslem’s power 
Had wrong’d him with the faithless Giaour. 
Somewhat of this had Hassan deem’d ; 
But still so fond, so fair she seem/’d, 
Too well he trusted to the slave 
Whose treachery deserv’d a grave : 
And on that eve had gone to mosque, 
And thence to feast in his kiosk. 
Such is the tale his Nubians tell, 
Who did not watch their charge too well ; 


(1) Alluding te the dubious suicide of the scorpion, so placed for experiment by 
gentle philosophers. Some maintain that the position of the sting, when turned to- 
wards the head, is merely a convulsive movement ; but others have actually brought 
in the verdict, “ Felo de se.””. The scorpicns are surely interested in a speedy de- 
cision of the question ; as, if once fairly established as insect Catos, they will proba- 
bly be allowed to live as long as they think proper, without being martyred for the 
sake of an hypothesis. 


(2) The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan, See ante, p. 248, note. 


THE GIAOUR. 255 


But others say, that on that night, 

By pale Phingari’s (*) trembling light, 
The Giaour upon his jet black steed 
Was seen, but seen alone to speed, 
With bloody spur along the shore, 


Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 


Her eye’s dark charm ’t were vain to tell, 
But gaze on that of the Gazelle, 
It will assist thy fancy well; 
As large, as languishingly dark, 
But Soul beam’d forth in every spark 
That darted from beneath the lid, 
Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. (’) 
Yea, Soul, and should our prophet say 
That form was nought but breathing clay, 
By Alla! I would answer nay ; 
Though on Al-Sirat’s (*) arch 1 stood, 
Which totters o’er the fiery flood, 
With Paradise within my view, 
And all his Houris beckoning through. 
Oh! who young Leila’s glance could read 
And keep that portion of his creed, (ἢ 
Which saith that woman is but dust, 
A soulless toy for tyrant’s lust ? 
On her might Muftis gaze. and own 
That through her eye the Immortal shone ; 
On her fair cheek’s unfading hue 
The young pomegranate’s (°) blossoms strew 


(1) Phingari, the moon. 

(2) The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giamschid, the embellisher of [stak- 
har; from its splendour, named Schebgerag, ‘ the torch of night ;” also “ the cup 
of the sun,” &c.— In the first edition, ‘‘ Giamschid ” was written as a word of three 
syllables, so D’Herbelot has it; but I am told Richardson reduces it to a dissyilable, 
and writes ‘‘ Jamshid.” Tf have left in the text the orthography of the one with the 
pronunciation of the other. . 


(3) Al-Sirat, the bridge of breadth, less than the thread of a famished spider, over 
which the Mussulmans must skate into Paradise, to whichit is the only entrance ; but 
this is not the worst, the river beneath being hell itself, into which, as may be ex- 
pected, the unskilfu! and tender of foot contrive to tumble with a ‘ facilis descensus 
Averni,” not very pleasing in prospect to the next passenger. There is a shorter 
cut downwards for the Jews and Christians. 


(4) A vulgar error: the Koran allots at least a third of Paradise to well-behaved 
women ; but by far the greater number of Mussulmans interpret the text their own 
way, aad exclude their moieties from heaven. Being enemies to Platonics, they can- 
not discern “ any fitness of things”’ in the souls of the other sex, conceiving them to 
pe superseded by the Houris. 

(5) An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though fairly stolen, be deemed “ plus 
Arabe qu’en Arabie.” 


2560 THE GIAOUR. 


Their bloom in blushes ever new; 
Her hair in hyacinthine (°) flow, 
When left to roil its folds below, 
As midst her handmaids in the hall 
She stood superior to them all, 
Hath swept the marble where her feet 
Gleam’d whiter than the mountain sleet 
Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 
Tt fell, and caught one stain of earth. 
The cygnet nobly walks the water ; 
So moved on earth Circassia’s daughter, 
The loveliest bird of Franguestan! (°) 
As rears her crest the ruffled Swan, 

And spurns the wave with wings of pride, 
When pass the steps of stranger man 

Along the banks that bound her tide ; 
Thus rose fair Leila’s whiter neck : — 
Thus arm’d with beauty would she check 
Intrusion’s glance, till Folly’s gaze 
Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. 
Thus high and graceful was her gait ; 
Her heart as tender to her mate ; 
Her mate — stern Hassan, who was he? 


Alas! that name was not for thee! 


Stern Hassan hath a journey ta’en 
With twenty vassals in his train, 
Each arm’d, as best becomes a man, 
With arquebuss and ataghan ; 

The chief before, as deck’d for war, 
Bears in his belt the scimitar 

Stain’d with the best of Arnaut blood, 
When in the pass the rebels stood, 
And few return’d to tell the tale 

Of what befell in Parne’s vale. 

The pistols which his girdie bore 
Were those that once a pasha wore, 
Which still, though gemm’d and poss’d with goid, 
Even robbers tremble to behold. 

Tis said he goes to woo a bride 
More true than her who left his side : 


(1) Hyacinthine, in Arabic, “ Sunbul;” as common a thought in the eastern poets 
as it was among the Greeks. 


(2) ““ Franguestan,” Circassia. 


THE GIAOUR. 257 


The faithless slave that broke her bower, 


And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour ! 


The sun’s last rays are on the hill, 
And sparkle in the fountain rill, 
Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, 
Draw blessings from the mountaineer : 
Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
Find that repose ’t were vain to seek 
In cities lodged too near his lord, 
And trembling for his secret hoard— 
Here may he rest where none can see, 
In crowds a slave, in deserts free ; 
And with forbidden wine may stain 


The bowl a Moslem must not drain. 
x * * * * * Ἂς 


The foremost 'Tartar’s in the gap, 
Conspicuous by his yellow cap ; 
The rest in lengthening line the while 
Wind slowly through the long defile : 
Above, the mountain rears a peak, 
Where vultures wet the thirsty beak, 
-And theirs may be a feast to-night, 
Shall tempt them down ere morrow’s hight ; 
Beneath, a river’s wintry stream 
Has shrunk before the summer beam, 
And left a channel bleak and bare, 
Save shrubs that spring to perish there : 
Each side the midway path there lay 
Small broken crags of granite gray, 
By time, or mountain lightning, riven 
From summits clad in mists of heaven 3 
Hor where is he that hath beheld 
The peak of Liakura unveil’d 2 


They reach the grove of pine at last : 
“ Bismillah ! (*) now the peril’s past ; 
For yonder view the opening plain, 
And there we ᾽] prick our steeds amain :” 
The Chiaus spake, and as he said, 
A bullet whistled o’er his head ; 
(1) Bismillah — ‘‘ In the name of God ;” the commencement of al he chapters of 
the Koran but one, and ‘of prayer and thanksgiving, 
VOL. 111.-ττϑ 


258 


(1) A phenomenon not uncommonwith an angry Mussulman. In 1809, the Capitan 
Pacha’s whiskers at a diplomatic audience were no less lively with indignation than a 
tiger cat’s, to the horror of all the dragomans ; the portentous mustachios twisted, they 
stood erect of their own accord, and were expected every moment to change their 
colour, but at last condescended to subside, which, probably, saved more heads than 


THE GIAOUR. 


The foremost Tartar bites the ground! 
Scarce had they time to check the rein, 

Swift from their steeds the riders bound ; 
But three shall never mount again : 

Unseen the foes that gave the wound, 
The dying ask revenge in vain. 

With steel unsheathed, and carbine bent, 

Some o’er their courser’s harness leant, 
Half shelter’d by the steed ; 

Some fly behind the nearest rock, 

And there await the coming shock, 
Nor tamely stand to bleed 

Beneath the shaft of foes unseen, 

Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 

Stern Hassan only from his horse 

Disdains to light, and keeps his course, 

Till fiery flashes in the van 

Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 

Have well secured the only way 

Could now avail the promised prey ; 

Then curl’d his very beard (’*) with ire, 

And glared his eye with fiercer fire : 

“ Though far and near the bullets hiss, 

I °ve scaped a bloodier hour than this.” 

And now the foe their covert quit, 

And call his vassals to submit ; 

But Hassan’s frown and furious word 

Are dreaded more than hostile sword, 

Nor of his little band a man 

Resign’d carbine or ataghan, 

Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun! (ἢ) 

In fuller sight, more near and near, 

The lately ambush’d foes appear, 

And, issuing from the grove, advance 

Some who on battle-charger prance. 

‘Who leads them on with foreign brand, 

Far flashing in bis red right hand? 

“ ΠῚ he! ’tishe! I know him now; 

1 know him by his pallid brow ; 


they contained hairs. 


(2) ““ Amaun,” quarter, pardon. 


THE GIAOUR. 253 


{i know him by the evil eye (’) 

That aids his envious treachery ; 

I know him by his jet-black barb : 
Though now array’d in Arnaut garb, 
Apostate from his own vile faith, 

It shall not save him from the death: 
’Tis he! well met in any hour, 

Lost Leila’s love, accursed Giaour !” 


As rolls the river into ocean, 
fn sable torrent wildly streaming ; 

As the sea-tide’s opposing motion, 
In azure column proudly gleaming, 
Beats back the current many a rood, 
in curling foam and mingling flood, 
While eddying whirl, and breaking wave, 
Roused by the blast of winter, rave ; 
Through sparkling spray, in thundering clash, 
The lightnings of the waters flash 
In awful whiteness o’er the shore, 
That shines and shakes beneath the roar ; 
Thus — as the stream and ocean greet, 
With waves that madden as they meet — 
Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong, 
And fate, and fury, drive along. 
The bickering sabres’ shivering jar ; 

And pealing wide or ringing near 

Its echoes on the throbbing ear, 
The death-shot hissing from afar ; 
The shock, the shout, the groan of war, 

Reverberate along that vale, 

More suited to the shepherd’s tale : 
Though few the numbers — theirs the strife, 
That neither spares nor speaks for life ! 
Ah! fondly youthful hearts can press, 

To seize and share the dear caress : 

But Love itself could never pant 

For all that Beauty sighs to grant, 

With half the fervour Hate bestows 

Upon the last embrace of foes, 

When grappling in the fight they fold 
Those arms that ne’er shall lose their hold: 


(1) The *‘ evil eye,” a common superstition in the Levant, and of which the magt« 
nary effects are yet very singular on those who conceive themselves affectad, 


200 


THE ΟἸΑΟΒΕ- 


Friends meet to part; Love laughs at faith ; 


True foes, once met, are join’d till death! 
* eK # * K # 


With sabre shiver’d to the hilt, 

Yet dripping with the blood he spilt ; 

Yet strain’d within the sever’d hand 
Which quivers round that faithless brand 
His turban far behind him roll’d, 

And cleft in twain its firmest fold ; 

His flowing robe by falchion torn, 

And crimson as those clouds of morn 
That, streak’d with dusky red, portend 
The day shall have a stormy end; 

A stain on every bush that bore 

A fragment of his palampore, (*) 

His breast witn wounds unnumber’d riven, 
His back to earth, his face to heaven, 
Fall’n Hassan lies — his unclosed eye 
Yet lowering on his enemy, 

As if the hour that seal’d his fate 
Surviving left his quenchless hate ; 

And o’er him bends that foe with brow 


As dark as his that bled below. — 
ΕἼ * * * * * 


“« Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, 
But his shall be a redder grave ; 
Her spirit pointed well the steel 
Which taught that felon heart to feel. 
He call’d the Prophet, but his power 
Was vain against the vengeful Giaour : 
He call’d on Alla — but the word 
Arose unheeded or unheard. 
Thou Paynim fool! could Leila’s prayer, 
Be pass’d, and thine accorded there ? 
I watch’d my time, I leagued with these, 
The traitor in his turn to seize ; 
My wrath is wreak’d, the deed is done, 


And now I go — but go alone.” 
* # * * * # 


* * * * * * 


The browsing camels’ bells are tinkling : 
His mother look’d from her lattice high, 


ἢ) The flowered shawls, generally worn by persons of rank. 


΄ 


THE GIAOUR. 261 


She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 
The pasture green beneath her eye, 
She saw the planets faintly twinkling : 
“ ?Tis twilight — sure his train is nigh.” 
She could not rest in the garden-bower, 
But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower: 
“ Why comes he not? his steeds are fleet, 
Nor shrink they from the summer heat : 
Why sends not the Bridegroom his promised aift 2 
Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift? 
Oh, false reproach! yon Tartar now 
Has gain’d our nearest mountain’s brow, 
And warily the steep descends, 
And now within the valley bends ; 
And he bears the gift at his saddle bow — 
How could I deem his courser slow ἢ 
Right well my largess shall repay 
His welcome speed, and weary way.” 


The Tartar lighted at the gate, 

But scarce upheld his fainting weight : 

His swarthy visage spake distress, 

But this might be from weariness ; 

His garb with sanguine spots was dyed, 
But these might be from his courser’s side ; 
He drew the token from his vest — 

Angel of Death! ’tis Hassan’s cloven crest! 
His calpac (*) rent — his caftan red — 

‘« Lady, a fearful bride thy Son bath wed : 
Me, not from mercy, did they spare, 

But this empurpled pledge to bear. 

Peace to the brave! whose blood is spilt ; 


Woe to the Giaour ! for his the guilt.” 
x * * * * * * 


A turban (*) carved in coarsest stone, 
A pillar with rank weeds o’ergrown, 
Whereon can now be scarcely read 
The Koran verse that mourns the dead, 
Point out the spot where Hassan fell 
A victim in that lonely dell. 


(1) The ‘* Calpac” is the solid cap or centre part of the head-dress ; the shawl is 
wound round it, and forms the turban. 


(2) The turban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, decorate the tombs of the Osmanlies, 
whether in the cemetery or the wilderness. Inthe mountains you frequently pass 
similar mementos ; and on enquiry you are informed that they record some victim 
of rebellion, plunder, or revenge. 


= 


262 THE GIAOUR. 


There sleeps as true an Osmanlie 

As e’er at Mecca bent the knee; 

As ever scorn’d forbidden wine, 

Or pray’d with face towards the shrine, 

In orisons resumed anew 

At solemn sound of * Alla Hu!” (ἢ) 

Yet died he by a stranger’s hand, 

And stranger in his native land ; 

Yet died he as in arms he stood, 

And unavenged, at jeast in blood. 

But him the maids of Paradise 
Impatient to their halls invite, 

And the dark Heaven of Houris’ eyes 
On him shall glance for ever bright ; 

They come — their kerchiefs green they wave,(*) 

And welcome with a kiss the brave! 

Who falls in battle ’gainst a Giaour 


Ts worthiest an immortal bower. 


But thou. false Infidel! shalt writhe 
Beneath avenging Monkir’s (°) scythe ; 
And from its torment ’scape alone 
To wander round Jost Eblis’ (*) throne ; 
And fire unquench’d, unquenchable, 
Around, within, thy heart shall dwell ; 
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell 
The tortures of that inward hell ! 

But first, on earth as vampire (°) sent, 
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent: 


(1) “ Alla Hu!” the concluding words of the Muezzin’s call to prayer from the 
highest gallery on the exterior of the Minaret, On a still evening, when the Muezzin 
has a fine voice, which is frequently the case, the effect is solemn and beautiful be- 
yond all the bells in Christendom. 

(2) The following is part of a battle-song of the Turks : —“‘ 1 see —I see a dark- 
eyed girl of Paradise, and she waves a handkerchief, a kerchief of green; and cries 
aloud, ‘ Come, kiss me, for I love thee,’ ἢ etc. 

(3) Monkir and Nekir are the inquisitors of the dead, before whom the corpse un-" 
dergoes a slight noviciate and preparatory training for damnation, If the answers are 
none of the clearest, he is hauled up with a scythe and thumped down with a red-hot 
mace till properly seasoned, with a variety of subsidiary probations. The office of 
these angels is no sinecure ; there are but two, and the number of orthodox deceased 
being in a small proportion to the remainder, their hands are always full. 


(4) Eblis, the Oriential Prince of Darkness. 


(5) The Vampire superstition is still general in the Levant. Honest Tournefert 
tells a long story, which Mr. Southey, in the notes on Thalaba, quotes, about these 
ες Vroucolochas,” as he callsthem. The Romaic term is “‘ Vardoulacha.” I re- 
collect a whole family being terrified by the seream ofa child, which they imagined 
must proceed from such a visitation. The Greeks never mention the word without 
horror, I find that ““ Broucolokas” is an old legitimate Hellenic appellation— at 
least 15 so applied to Arsenius, who, according to the Greeks, was after his death 
animated by the Devil, -- The moderns, however, use the word I mention. 


Ό 


THE GIAOUR. 263 


Then ghastly haunt thy native place, 
And suck the blood of all thy race ; 
There from thy daughter, sister, wife, 
At midnight drain the stream of life ; 
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce 
Must feed thy livid living corse : 

Thy victims ere they yet expire 


Shall know 
As cursing 


the demon for their sire, 
thee, thou cursing them, 


Thy flowers are wither’d on the stem. 
But one that for thy crime must fall, 


The youngest, most beloved of all, 


Shali bless 


thee with a father’s name — 


That word shall wrap thy heart in flame ! 
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark 

Her cheek’s last tinge, her eye’s last spark, 
And the last glassy glance mst view 
Which freezes o’er its lifeless blue ; 

Then with unhallow’d hand shall tear 

The tresses of her yellow hair, 

Of which in life a lock when shorn 
Affection’s fondest pledge was worn ; 


But now is 


borne away by thee, 


Memorial of thine agony ! 

Wet with thine own best blood shall drip (’) 
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard hip ; 

Then stalking to thy sullen grave, 

Go— and with Gouls and Afrits rave 5 
Till these in horror shrink away 


* * 


or 
σι 


From spectre more accursed than they! 


How name ye yon lone Caloyer? 


His features I have scann’d before 
In mine own land: ’tis many a year, 
Since, dashing by the lonely shore, 
I saw him urge as fleet a steed 
As ever served a horseman’s need. 


But once i 


saw that face, yet then 


Tt was so mark’d with inward pain, 
I could not pass it by again ; 


It breathes 


the same dark spirit now, 


As death were stamp’d upon his brow.” 


(1) The freshness of the 
failing signs of a Vampire. 


face, and the wetness of the lip with blood, are the never- 
The stories told in Hungary and Greece of these foul 


feeders are singular, and some of them most incredibly attested. 


264 


THE GIAOUR. 


?Tis twice three years at summer-tide 


Since first among our freres he came ; 
And here it soothes him to abide 

For some dark deed he will not name. 
But never at our vesper prayer, 
Nor e’er before confession chair 
Kkneels he, nor recks he when arise 
Incense or anthem to the skies, 
But broods within his cel! alone, 
His faith and race alike unknown. 
The sea from Paynim land he crost, 
And here ascended from the coast ; 
Yet seems he not of Othman race, 
But only Christian in his face: - 
I'd judge him some stray renegade, 
Repentant of the change he made, 
Save that he shuns our holy shrine, 
Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. 
Great largess to these walls he brought, 
And thus our abbot’s favour bought ; 
But were I Prior, not a day 
Should brook such stranger’s further stay, 
Or pent within our penance ceil _ . 
Should doom him there for aye.to dwell. 
Much in his visions mutters he 
Of maiden whelm’d beneath the sea ; 
Of sabres clashing, foemen flying, 
Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. 
On cliff he hath been known to stand, 


And rave as to some bloody hand 


Fresh sever’d from its parent limb, 
Invisible to all but him, 
Which beckons onward to his grave, 


And lures to leap into the wave.” 
# * * * * # 


/ Dark and unearthly is the scowl 


That glares beneath his dusky cow] : 
The flash of that dilating eye 
Reveals too much of times gone by ; 
Though varying, indistinct its hue, 
Oft will his glance the gazer rue, 
For in it lurks that nameless spell 
Which speaks, itself unspeakable, 


THE GIAOUR. 265 


A spirit yet unquell’d and high, 

That claims and keeps ascendency ; 

And like the bird whose pinions quake, 
But cannot fly the gazing snake, 

Will others quail beneath his look, 

Nor ’scape the glance they scarce can. brook 
From him the half-affrighted Friar 

When met alone would fain retire, 

As if that eye and bitter smile 
Transferr’d to others fear and guile : 

Not oft to smile descendeth he, 

And when he doth ’tis sad to see 

That he but mocks at Misery. 

How that pale lip will curl and quiver! 
Then fix once more as if for ever ; 

As if his sorrow or disdain 

Forbade him e’er to smile again. 

Well were it so — such ghastly mirth 
From joyance ne’er derived its birth. 
But sadder still it were to trace ἤ,..»... 
XWhat once were feelings in that face: “ 


fate hath not yet the Ghenee fix’d, Jaen gg σώνν VEE 


“But brighter traits with evil mix’d ; 
And there are hues not always faded, 
Which speak a mind not all degraded 
Even by the crimes through which it waded : 
The common crowd but see the gloom 
Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom ; 
The close observer can espy 
A noble soul, and lineage high: 
Alas! though both bestow’d in vain, 
Which Grief could change, and Guilt could su 
it was no vulgar tenement 
To which such lofty gifts were lent, 
And still with little less than dread 
On such the sight is riveted. 
The roofless cot, decay’d and rent; 

Wiil scarce delay the passer by ; 
The tower by war or tempest bent, 
While yet may frown one battlement, 

Demands and daunts the stranger’s eye ; 
Each ivied arch, and pillar lone, 
Pleads haughtily for glories gone ! 


“ς His floating robe around him folding, 
Slow sweeps he through the column’d aisle ; 


266 THE GIAOUR. 


With dread beheld, with gloom beholding 
The rites that sanctify the pile. 

But when the anthem shakes the choir 

And kneel the monks, his steps retire ; 

By yonder Jone and wavering torch 

His aspect glares within the porch ; 

There will he pause till all is done — 

And hear the prayer, but utter none. 

See — by the half-illumined wall 

His hood fly back, his dark hair fall, 

That pale brow wildly wreathing round, 

As if the Gorgon there had bound 

The sablest of the serpent-braid 

That o’er her fearful forehead stray’d : 

For he declines the convent oath, 

And leayes those locks unhallow’d growth, 

But wears our garb in all beside ; 

And, not from piety but pride, 

Gives wealth to walls that never heard 

Of his one holy vow nor word. 

Lo ! — mark ye, as the harmony 

Peals louder praises to the sky, 

That livid cheek, that stony air 

Of mix’d defiance and despair ! 

Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine! 

Else may we dread the wrath divine 

Made manifest by awful sign. 

If ever evil angel bore 

The form of mortal, such he wore : 

By all my hope of sins forgiven, 

Such looks are not of earth nor heaven ! ” 


To love the softest hearts are prone, 
But such can ne’er be all his own; 
Too timid in his woes to share, 

Too meek to meet, or brave despair ; 
And sterner hearts alone may feel 
The wound that time can never heal. 
The rugged metal of the mine 

Must burn before its surface shine, 
But plunged within the furnace-flame, 
It bends and melts — though still the same ; 
Then temper’d to thy want, or will, 
’T will serve thee to defend or kill ; 

A breast-plate for thine hour of need, 
Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed ; 


THE GIAOUR. 267 


But if a dagger’s form it bear, 

Let those who shape its edge, beware! 
Thus passion’s fire, and woman’s art, 
Can turn and tame the sterner heart ; 
From these its form and tone are ta’en, 
And what they make it, must remain, 


But break — before it bend again. 
* * * & * * 


[f solitude succeed to grief, 
Release from pain is slight relief ; 
The vacant bosom’s wilderness 
Might thank the pang that made it less. 
We loathe what none are left to share : 
Even bliss — ’t were woe alone to bear ; 
The heart once left thus desolate 
Must fly at last for ease — to hate. 
It is as if the dead could feel 
The icy worm around them steal, 
And shudder, as the reptiles creep 
To revel o’er their rotting sleep, 
Without the power to scare away 
The cold consumers of their clay! 
It 1s as if the desert-bird, (ἢ) 
Whose beak unlocks her bosom’s stream 
To still her famish’d nestlings’ scream, 
Nor mourns a life to them transferr’d, 
Should rend her rash devoted breast, 
And find them flown her empty nest. 
The keenest pangs the wretched find, 
Are rapture to the dreary void, 
The leafless desert of the mind, 
The waste of feelings unemploy’d. 
Who would be doom’d to gaze upon 
A sky without a cloud or sun? 
Less hideous far the tempest’s roar 
Than ne’er to brave the billows more — 
Thrown, when the war of winds is o’er, 
A lonely wreck on fortune’s shore, 
’Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, 
Unseen to drop by dull decay ; — 


(1) The pelican 1s, I believe, the bird so libelied, by the imputation of feeding her 
chickens with her blood. 


THE CGIAOUR. 


Better to sink beneath the shock 


Than moulder piecemeal on the rock! 
# * * ΕἼ * * 


“Father! thy days have pass’d in peace, 


’*Mid counted beads, and countless prayer ; 


_To bid the sins of others cease, 


Thyself without a crime or care, 
Save transient ills that all must bear, 
Has been thy lot from youth to age ; 
And thou wilt bless thee from the rage 
Of passions fierce and uncontroll’d, 
Such as thy penitents unfold, 
Whose secret sins and sorrows rest 
Within thy pure and pitying breast. 
My days, though few, have pass’d below 
In much of joy, but more of woe ; 
Yet still in hours of love or strife, 
I’ve ’scaped the weariness of life : 
Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, 
I loathed the languor of repose. 
Now nothing left to love or hate, 
No more with hope or pride elate, 
Τ᾿ ἃ rather be the thing that crawls 


. Most noxious o’er a dungeon’s walls, 


Than pass my dull, unvarying days, 
Condemn’d to meditate and gaze. 
Yet, lurks a wish within my breast 
For rest — but not to feel ’t is rest. 
Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil ; 

And I shall sleep without the dream 
Of what I was, and would be still, 

Dark as to thee my deeds may seem: 
My memory now is but the tomb 
Of joys long dead ; my hope, their doom : 
Though better to have died with those 
Than bear a life of lingering woes. 
My spirits shrunk not to sustain 
The searching throes of ceaseless pain ; 
Nor sought the self-accorded grave 
Of ancient fool and modern knave : 
Yet death I have not fear’d to meet; 
And in the field it had been sweet, 
Had danger woo’d me on to move 
The slave of glory, not of love. 


THE GIAOUR. 269 


I’ve braved it—not for honour’s boast ; 

I smile at laurels won or lost ; 

To such let others carve their way, 

For high renown, or hireling pay τ: 

But place again before my eyes 

Aught that I deem a worthy prize, 

The maid I love, the man I hate ; 

And I will hunt the steps of fate, 

To save or slay, as these require, 

Through rending steel, and rolling fire : 

Nor need’st thou doubt this speech from one 
Who would but do — what he hath done. 
Death is but what the haughty brave, ᾿ 
The weak must bear, the wretch must crave ; 
Then let Life go to him who gave: ᾿ 

I have not quail’d to danger’s brow 


When high and happy — need I now ? 


1 loved her, Friar! nay, adored — 
But these are words that all can use — 
I proved it more in deed than word; 
There’s blood upon that dinted sword, 
A stain its steel can never lose: 
’T was shed for her, who died for me, 

It warm’d the heart of one abhorr’d : 
Nay, start not — no — nor bend thy knee, 
Nor midst my sins such act record ; 
Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, 

For he was hostile to thy creed! 

The very name of Nazarene 

Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. 
Ungrateful fool! since but for brands 
Well wielded in some hardy hands, 
And wounds by Galileans given, 

The surest pass to Turkish heaven, 
For him his Houris still might wait 
Impatient at the Prophet’s gate. 

I loved her — love will find its way 
Through paths where wolves would fear to prey ; 
And if it dares enough, ’t were hard 

If passion met not some reward — 

No matter how, or where, or why, 

T did not vainly seek, nor sigh: 

Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain 
I wish she had not loved again. 


270 THE GIAOUR. 


She died —I dare not tell thee how ; 
But look —’t is written on my brow! 
There read of Cain the curse and crime, — 
In characters unworn by time : 
Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause ; 
Not mine the act, though I the cause. , 
Yet did he but what I had done 
Had she been false to more than one. 
Faithless to him, he gave the biow ; 
But true to me, I laid him low: 
Howe’er deserved her doom miglit be, 
Her treachery was truth to me ; 
To me she gave her heart, that all 
Which tyranny can ne’er enthral ; 
And I, alas! too late to save ! 
Yet all I then could give, I gave, 
°T was some relief, our foe a grave. 
His death sits lightly ; but her fate 
Has made me — what thou well may’st hate. 

His doom was seal’d —he knew it well, 
Warn’d by the voice of stern Taheer, 
Deep in whose darkly boding ear (ἢ) 
The death-shot peal’d of murder near, 

As filed the troop to where they fell ! 


(1} This superstition of a second hearing (for I never met with downright second- 
ght in the East) fell once under my own observation. —On my third journey to 
yape Colonna, early in 1811, as we passed through the defile that leads from the ham- 
let between Keratia and Colonna, I observed Dervish Tahiri riding rather out of 
tae path, and leaning his head upon his hand, as ifin pain. I rode up and enquired. 
ἐς We are in peril,” he answered. ‘ What peril? we are not now in Albania, nor 
in the passes to Ephesus, Messalunghi, or Lepanto; there are plenty of us, wel! 
armed, and the Choriates have not courage tobe thieves.””—*‘ True, Affendi, but 
nevertheless the shot is ringimg in my ears.””—‘‘ The shot! not a tophaike has 
been fired this morning.” —‘ I hear it notwithstanding — Bom — Bom — as plainiy 
as [hear your voice,” -—‘* Psha "ἢ" — ‘* As you please, Affendi; if it is written, so 
will it be.”” — ἴ left this quick-eared predestinarian, and rode up to Basili, his Chris- 
tian compatriot, whose ears, though not at all prophetic, by no means relished the 
intelligence. We all arrived at Colonna, remained some hours, and returned lei- 
surely, saying a variety of brilliant things, in more languages than spoiled the building 
of Babel, upon the mistaken seer; Romaic, Arnaout, Turkish, Italian, and English 
were all exercised, in various conceits, upon the unfortunate Mussulman. While we 
were contemplating the beautiful prospect, Dervish was occupied about the columns. 
I thought he was deranged into an antiquarian, and asked him if he had become a 
ἐξ Palao-castro” man? “ No,” said he, ‘ but these pillars will be useful in making 
a stand ;” and added other remarks, which at least evinced his own belief in his treu- 
biesome faculty of forehearing. On our return to Athens, we heard from Leoné (a 
prisoner set ashore some days after) of the intended attack of the Maimotes, men- 
tioned, with the cause of its not taking place, in the notes to Childe Harold, Canto 
2d. I was at some pains to question the man, and he described the dresses, arms, 
and marks of the horses of our party so accurately, that, with other circumstances, 
we could not doubt of his having been in ‘ villainous company,” and ourselves in a 
bad neighbourhood. Dervish became a soothsayer for life, and I dare say is now 
hearing more musketry than ever will be fired, to the great refreshment of the Arna- 
outs of Berat, and his native mountains.—! shall mention one trait more of this sin- 


Si 
i’ 


THE GIAOUR. 271 


He died too in the battle broil, 

A time that heeds nor pain nor toil ; 
One cry to Mahomet for aid, 

One prayer to Alla all he made : 

He knew and cross’d me in the fray — 
I gazed upon him where he lay 

And watch’d his spirit ebb away : 
Though piere’d like pard by hunters’ steel, 
He felt not half that now I feel. 

I search’d, bui vainly search’d, to find 
The workings of a wounded mind ; 
Each feature of that sullen corse 
Betray’d his rage, but no remorse. 

Oh, what had Vengeance given to trace 
Despair upon his dying face ! 

The late repentance of that hour, 
When Penitence hath lost her power 
To tear one terror from the grave, 


And will not soothe, and cannot save. 


ἐς The cold in clime are cold in blood, 

Their love can scarce deserve the name ; 
But mine was like the lava flood 
That boils in Atna’s breast of flame. 

I cannot prate in puling strain 

Of ladye-love, and beauty’s chain : 

If changing cheek, and scorching vem, 
Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, 
If bursting heart, and madd’ning brain, 
And daring deed, and vengeful steei, 
And all that I have felt, and feel, 
Betoken love —that love was mine, 
And shown by many a bitter sign. 

°Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh, 
I knew but to obtain or die. 

I die — but first | have possess’d, 

And come what may, I have been blest. 


gular race. In March, 1811, a remarkably stout and active Arnaout came (I believe 
the 50th on the same errand) to offer himself as an attendant, which was declined : 
Well, Atfendi,” quoth he, ‘¢ may you live !— you would have found me usefui. I 
shall leave the town for the hills to-morrow, in the winter I return, perhaps you will 
thén receive me.”’—Dervish, who was present, remarked, as a thing of course, and 
of no consequence, “ in the mean time he will join the Klephtes ” (robbers), which 
was true to the Jetter.— If not cut off, they come down in the winter, and pass it un- 
molested in some town, where they are often as well known as their exploits. 


272 


6 


6 


THE GIAQUR. 


Shall I the doom I sought upbraid ? 
No — reft of all, yet undismay’d 

But for the thought of Leila slain, 

Give me the pleasure with ihe pain, 

So would [ live and love again. 

I grieve, but not, my holy guide ! 

For him who dies, but her who died: - 
She sleeps beneath the wandering wave 
Ah! had she but an earthly grave, 
This breaking heart and throbbing head 
Should seek and share her narrow bed. 
She was a form of life and light, 

That, seen, became a part of sight ; 
And rose, where’er I turned mine eye, 
The Morning star of Memory ! 


Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven ; 
A spark of that immortal! fire 
With angels shared, by Alla given, 
To life from earth our low desire. 
Devotion wafts the mind above, 
But Heaven itself descends in love ; 
A feeling from the Godhead caught, 
To wean from self each sordid thought ; 
A Ray of him who form’d the whole ; 
A Glory circling round the soul! 
I grant my love imperfect, all 
That mortals by the name miscall ; 
Then deem it evil, what thou wilt ; 
But say, oh say, hers was not guilt ! 
She was my life’s unerring light : 
That quench’d, what beam shall break my night? 
Oh! would it shone to lead me still, 
Although to death or deadliest ill! 
Why marvel ye, if they who lose 
This present joy, this future hope, 
No more with sorrow meekly cope ; 
In phrensy then their fate accuse : 
In madness do those fearful deeds 
That seem to add but guilt to woe? 
Alas! the breast that inly bleeds 
Hath nought to dread from outward blow : 
Who falls from all he knows of bliss, 
Cares little into what abyss. 
Fierce as the gloomy vulture’s now 
To thee, old man, my deeds appear : 


THE GIAOUR. 273 
\ 
I read abhorrence on thy brow, 

And this too was I born to bear! 
Tis true, that, like that bird of prey, 
With havock have 1 mark’d my way : 
But this was taught me by the dove, 
To die — and know no second love. 
This lesson yet hath man to learn, 
Taught by the thing he dares to spurn : 
The bird that sings within the brake, 
The swan that swims upon the lake, 
One mate, and one alone, will take. 
And let the fool still prone to range, 
And sneer on all who cannot change, 
Partake his jest with boasting boys ; 

I envy not his varied joys, 

But deem such feeble, heartless man, 
Less than yon solitary swan ; 

Far, far beneath the shallow maid 

He left believing and betray’d. 

Such shame at least was never mine — 
Leila! each thought was only thine! 
My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe, 
My hope on high — my all below. 
Earth holds no other like to thee, ; 
Or, if it doth, in vain for me: 

For worlds I dare not view the dame 
Resembling thee, yet not the same. 
The very crimes that mar my youth, 
This bed of death — attest my truth ! 
Tis all too late — thou wert, thou art 
The cherish’d madness of my heart! 


‘¢ And she was lost — and yet I breathed, 

But not the breath of human life : 

A serpent round my heart was wreathed, 
And stung my every thought to strife. 

Alike all time, abhorr’d all place, 

Shuddering I shrunk from Nature’s face, 

Where every hue that charm’d before 

The blackness of my bosom wore. 

The rest thou dost already know, 

And all my sins, and half my woe. 

But talk no more of penitence ; 

Thou see’st I soon shall part from hence : 

And if thy holy tale were true, 

The deed that ’s done canst thou undo? 

VOL. i1].—T 


274 THE GIAOUR. 


Think me not thankless — but this grief 
Looks not to priesthood for relief. (ἢ) 
My soul’s estate in secret guess : 

But wouldst thou pity more, say less. 
When thou canst bid my Leila live, 
Then will I sue thee to forgive ; 

Then plead my cause in that high place 
Where purchased masses proffer grace. 
Go, when the hunter’s hand hath wrung 
From forest-cave her shrieking young, 
And calm the lonely lioness : 

But soothe not — mock not my distress ! 


ἐκ In earlier days, and calmer hours, 

When heart with heart delights to blend, 
Where bloom my native valley’s bowers 

I had — Ah! have I now ? —a friend ! 
To him this pledge I charge thee send, 

Memorial of a youthful vow ; 

Τ would remind him of my end: 

Though souls absorbed like mine allow 
Brief thought to distant friendship’s claim, 
Yet dear to him my blighted name. 

Tis strange — he prophesied my doom, 

And Thave smiled — I then could smile — 
When Prudence would his voice assume, 

And warn — I reck’d not what — the whils : 
But now remembrance whispers o’er 
Those accents scarcely mark’d before. 
Say — that his bodings came to pass, 

And he will start to hear their truth, 

And wish his words had not been sooth: 
Tell him, unheeding as I was, 

Through many a busy bitter scene 

Of all our golden youth had been, 

In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 
To bless his memory ere I died ; 

But Heaven in wrath would turn away 
If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. 

I do not ask him not to blame, 

Too gentle he to wound my name ; 
And what have I to do with fame ? 


(1) The monk’s sermon is omitted. It seems to have had so little effect upon the 
patient, that it could have no hopes from the reader. It may be sufficient te say. 
that it was of a customary length (as may be perceived from the interruptions and 
uneasiness of the patient), and was delivered in the usual tone of all orthodox preach- 
ers. yo Ὁ “Ὁ 


THE GIAOUR. 278 


i do not ask him not to mourn, 
Such cold request might sound like scorn ; 
And what than friendship’s manly tear 
May better grace a brother’s bier? 
But bear this ring, his own of old, 
And tell him — what thou dost behold! 
The wither’d frame, the ruin’d mind, 
The wrack by passion left behind, 
A shrivell’d scroll, a scatter’d leaf, 
Sear’d by the autumn blast of grief! 

* # ᾿ * Ξ 


ἐς Tell me no more of fancy’s gleam, 
No, father, no, ’twas not a dream 
Alas! the dreamer first must sleep, 
I only watch’d, and wish’d to weep ; 
But could not, for my burning brow 
Throbb’d to the very brain as now : 
I wish’d but for a single tear, 
As something welcome, new, and dear : 
I wish’d it then, I wish it still; 
Despair is stronger than my will. 
Waste not thine orison, despair 
Is mightier than thy pious prayer : 
1 would not, if I might, be blest ; 
I want no paradise, but rest. 

Twas then, I tell thee, father! then 
I saw her; yes, she lived again ; 
And shining in her white symar, (*) 
As through yon pale gray cloud the star 
Which now I gaze on, as on her, 
Who look’d and looks far lovelier ; 
Dimly I view its trembling spark ; 
To-morrow’s night shali be more dark ; 
And I, before its rays appear, 

That lifeless thing the living fear. 

I wander, father! for my soul 

Is fleeting towards the final goal. 

I saw her, friar! and I rose 

Forgetful of our former woes ; 

And rushing from my couch, I dari, 

And clasp her to my desperate heart ; 

I clasp — what is it that I clasp? 

No breathing form within my grasp, 
(1) " Symar,” a shroud. 


ἰνῶν. ὦ 


2 


6 


6 


THE GIAOUR. 


No heart that beats reply to mine, 

Yet, Leila! yet the form is thine! 

And art thou, dearest, changed so much, 
As meet my eye, yet mock my touch ! 
Ah! were thy beauties e’er so cold, 

I care not; so my arms enfold 

The all they ever wish’d to hold. 

Alas! around a shadow prest, 

They shrink upon my lonely breast ; 
Yet still ’tis there! In silence stands, 
And beckons with beseeching hands ! 
With braided hair, and bright-black eye — 
I knew °twas false — she could not die! 
But he is dead! within the dell 

I saw him buried where he fell ; 

He comes not, for he cannot break 
From earth; why then art thou awake ¢ 
They told me wild waves roll’d above 
The face I view, the form [I love ; 

They told me —’twas a hideous tale! 
I’d tell it, but my tongue would fail : 

Τί true, and from thine ocean-cave 
Thou com’st to claim a calmer grave, 
Oh! pass thy dewy fingers o’er 

This brow that then will burn no more ; 
Or place them on my hopeless heart : 
But, shape or shade! whate’er thou art, 
In mercy ne’er again depart ! 

Or farther with thee bear my soul, 


Than winds can waft or waters roll! 


Such is my name, and such my tale. 

Confessor! to thy secret ear 
I breathe the sorrows I bewail, 

And thank thee for the generous tear 
This glazing eye could never shed. 
Then lay me with the humbiest dead, 
And, save the cross above my head, 
Be neither name nor emblem spread, 
By prying stranger to be read, 

Or stay the passing pilgrim’s tread.” 


He pass’d -— nor of his name and race 
Hath left a token or a trace, 


THE GIAOUR. 20 


Save what the father must not say 
Who shrived him on his dying day : 
This broken tale was all we knew 
Of her he loved, or him he slew. (ἢ) 


\1) The circumstance to which the above story relates was not very uncommon in 
Turkey. A few years ago the wife of Muchtar Pacha complained to his father of 
his son’s supposed infidelity ; he asked with whom, and she had the barbarity to give 
in a list of the twelve handsomest women in Yanina. They were seized, fastened 
up in sacks, and drowned in the lake the same night! One of the guards who was 
present informed me, that not one of the victims uttered a cry, or showed a symptom 
of terror at so sudden a ‘‘ wrench from all we know, from all we love.” The fate of 
Phrosine, the fairest of this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic and Arnaout 
ditty. The story in the text is one told of a young Venetian many years ago, and 
now nearly forgotten. TI heard it by accident recited by one of the coffee-house sto- 
ry-tellers who abound in the Levant, and sing or recite their narratives. The addi- 
tions and interpolations by the translator will be easily distinguished from the rest by 
the want of Eastern imagery; and I regret that my memory has retained so few 
fragments of the original. 

For the contents of some of the notes I am indebted partly to D’Herbelot, and 
partly to that most eastern, and, as Mr. Weber justly entitles it, ‘* sublime tale,” 
the “ Caliph Vathek.” I do not know from what source the author of that singular 
volume may have drawn his materials ; some of his incidents are to be found in the 
 ** Bibliotheque Orientale ; but for correctness of costume, beauty of description, and 
power of imagination, it far surpasses all Huropean imitations ; and bears such marks 
of originality, that those who have visited the East, will find some difficulty in believ- 
ing it to be more than a translation, As an Eastern tale, even Rasselas must bow 
before it; his “ Happy Valley” will not bear a comparison with the * Hall of 
Eblis.” 


ὙΠ hewn πίων ᾿ 


Ha. φρο Hii οί τὴ αν Ηρ΄ 
tN QP, Tt ὌΝ iff: νἱ ἍΝ ᾿ 


bev ͵ 


τρια 


\ 


: 


- 


3 
᾿ 
4 
a 
a 
a 
7 
3 
3 


THE 


BRIDE OF ABYDOS, 


A TURKISH TALE. 


ες Had we never loved so kindly, 
Had we never loved so blindly, 
Never met or never parted, 
We had ne’er been hroken-hearted.” 
Burns. 


4 


a 
Pa 
yy 


evry 


’ 1 Ag JJ v “- 
Pair ite 4 29] 
ae ΡΥ 
; ἢ Ps 
᾿ re) ω 
" re at re. 1 ee εξ 
= J Φ. J 
er). Ἷ a 


TO 
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 


LORD HOLLAND, 


THIS TALE 
IS INSCRIBED, WITH 
EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD, 
AND RESPECT, 
BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGED 


AND SINCERE FRIEND, 


BYRON. 


ἊΣ \eohgene oi 


Ss τς 


τρις ὰ 


Φ 


Pree 


ee a 


ay ~~ 


ΓΑ 


(Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 


THE 


BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 


CANTO THE FIRST. αἱ 


i. 


Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime,. 


\ Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, » 


Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? 
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine ; 
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress’d with perfume, 
Wax faint o’er the gardens of Gal (*) in her bloom ; 
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 
And the ate of the nightingale never is mute : 
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky 
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, 
And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye; 
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
Tis the clime of the East; ’tis the land of the Sun — ᾿ 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? ( | 
Oh! wild as the accents of lovers’ farewell 
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell 


II. 


Begirt with many a gallant slave, 
Apparell’d as becomes the brave, 

Awaiting each his lord’s behest 

To guide his steps, or guard his rest, 

Old Giaffir sate in his Divan: Ἂς 
Deep thought was in hisaged eye; | 
(1) ‘ Gdl,” the rose. 
(2) “ Souls made of fire, and children of the Sun 


With whom revenge is virtue.’’ 
Young’s Revenge. 


284 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 


And though the face of Mussulman 
Not oft betrays to standers by 

The mind within, well skill’d to hide 

All but unconquerable pride, 

His pensive cheek and pondering brow 

Did more than he was wont avow. 


iil. 


*«* Let the chamber be clear’d.” — The train disappear’d — 
‘* Now call me the chief of the Haram guard.” 
With Giaffir is none but his only son, 
And the Nubian awaiting the sire’s award. 
« Haroun — when all the crowd that wait 
Are pass’d beyond the outer gate, 
(Woe to the head whose eye beheld 
My child Zuleika’s face unveil’d !) 
Hence, lead my daughter from her tower ; 
_ Her fate is fix’d this very hour: 
\ Yet not to her repeat my thought ; 
By me alone be duty taught! ” 
“ Pacha! to hear is to obey.” 
No more must slave to despot say — 
Then to the tower had ta’en his way, 
But here young Selim silence brake, 

First lowly rendering reverence mect® 
And downeast look’d, and gently spake, 
Still standing at the Pacha’s feet : 

For son of Moslem must expire, 
Ere dare to sit before his sire! ~ 


** Father! for fear that thou shouldst chide 
My sister, or her sable guide, 
Know — for the fault, if fault there be, 
Was mine, then fall thy frowns on me — 
So lovelily the morning shone, 

That — let the old and weary sleep — 
I could not; and to view alone 

The fairest scenes of land and deep, 
With none to listen and reply ) 
To thoughts with which my heart beat high 
Were irksome — for whate’er my mood, 
in sooth I love not solitude ; 
I on Zuleika’s slumber broke, 

And, as thou knowest that for me 

Soon turns the Haram’s grating key, 


THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 285 


Before the guardian slaves awoke 

We to the cypress groves had flown, 

And made earth, main, and heaven our own! 
There linger’d we, beguiled too long 
With Mejnoun’s tale, or Sadi’s song ; (') 
Till I, who heard the deep tambour (ἢ) 
Beat thy Divan’s approaching hour, 

To thee, and to my duty true, 

Warn’d by the sound, to greet thee flew : 
But there Zuleika wanders yet — 

Nay, Father, rage not — nor forget 

That none can pierce that secret bower 
But those who watch the women’s tower.” 


IV- 


“Son of a slave”? — the Pacha said — 
‘* From unbelieving mother bred, 
Vain were a father’s hope to see 
Aught that beseems a man in thee. 
Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow 
And hurl the dart, and curb the steed, yi 


ety Phowy Greek ἰ soul if nat in creed, » 
Must pore where babbling waters flow, = / 


And watch unfolding roses blow. 

Weuld that yon orb, whose matin glow 
Thy listless eyes so much admire, 

Would lend thee something of his fire ! 
Thou, who would’st see this baitlement 
By Christian cannon piecemeal rent ; 
Nay, tamely view old Stambol’s wall 
Before the dogs of Moscow fall, 

Nor strike one stroke for life and death 
Against the curs of Nazareth! 

Go — let thy less than woman’s hand 
Assume the distaff — not the brand. 

But, Haroun! — to my daughter speed : 
And hark — of thine own head take heed — 
If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 

Thou see’st yon bow — it hath a string! ” 


abe 
: 


ν. 


No sound from Selim’s lip was heard, 
At least that met old Giaffir’s ear, 


(1) Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the East. Sadi, the moral poet 
of Persia. : 


(2) Tambour, Turkish drum, which sounds at sunrise, noon, and twilight. 


286 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 


But every frown and every word 

Pierced keener than a Christian’s sword : 
“ Son of a slave! — reproach’d with fear ! 
Those gibes had cost another dear. 

Son of a slave ! —and who my sire?” 

Thus held his thoughts their dark career ; 

And glances ev’n of more than ire 
Flash forth, then faintly disappear. 

Old Giaffir gazed upon his son 
_And started; for within his eye 

He read how much his wrath had done ; 

He saw rebellion there begun : 
“ Come hither, boy —— what, no reply ? 

I mark thee — and I know thee too ; 

But there be deeds thou dar’st not do: 

But if thy beard had manlier length, 

And if thy hand hac skill and strength, 

I'd joy to see thee break a lance, 

Albeit against my own perchance.” 


As sneeringly these accents fell, 
On Selim’s eye he fiercely gazed : 
That eye return’d him glance for glance, 
And proudly to his sire’s was raised, 
Till Giaffir’s quail’d and shrunk askance —- 
And why — he felt, but durst not tell. 
« Much 1 misdoubt this wayward boy 
Will one day work me more annoy : 
I never loved him from his birth, 
And — but his arm is little worth, 
And scarcely in the chase could cope 
With timid fawn or antelope, 
Far less would venture into strife 
Where man contends for fame and life — 
I would not trust that look or tone : 
No —nor the blood so near my own. 
That blood — he hath not heard —no more 
ΤΊ] watch him closer than before. 
He is an Arab (’*) to my sight, 
Or Christian crouching in the fight — 
But hark !—I hear Zuleika’s voice ; 
Like Houris’ hymn it meets mine ear : 
She is the offspring of my choice ; 
Oh! more than ev’n her mother dear, 


(1) The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the compliment a hundred fold) even 
more than they hate the Christians. 


THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 287 


With all to hope, and nought to fear — 
[y Peri! ever welcome here! 
ppl poweet as the desert fountain’s wave 
ἐλ \'To lips just cool’d in time to save — 
ἦ Such to my longing sight art thou ; 
* Nor can they waft to Mecca’s shrine 
: More thanks for life, than I for thine, 


Who blest thy birth, and bless thee now.” 


Vi. 


Fair, as the first that fell of womankind, 
When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, 
Whose image then was stamp’d upon her mind — 
But once beguiled — and ever more beguiling ; 
Dazzling, as that, oh! too transcendent vision 
To Sorrow’s phantom-peopled slumber given, 
When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian, 
And paints the lost on Earth revived in Heaven ; 
Soft, as the memory of buried love ; 
Pure, as the prayer which Childhood wafts above ; 
Was she — the daughter of that rude old Chief, 
Who met the maid with tears — but not of orief. 


Who had not proved how feebly wordsessay 
To fix one spark of Beauty’s heavenly ray? © 
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight 

Faints into dimness with its own delight, 

His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess 

The might — the majesty of Loveliness ? 

Such was Zuleika— such around her shone 

The nameless charms unmark’d by her alone ; 
The light of love, the purity of grace, ee 7, 
The mind, the Music breathing from her face, (1) 

The heart whose softness harmonized the whole — 

And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul ! ‘ 


(1) This expression has met with objections. I will not refer to “‘ Him whé hath 
not music in his soul,” but merely request the reader to recollect, for ten seconds, 
the features of the woman whom he believes to be the most beautiful; and, if he then 
does not comprehend fully what is feebly expressed in the above line, I shall be sorry 
for us both. For an eloquent passage in the latest work of the first female writer οἱ 
this, perhaps of any, age, on the analogy (and the immediate comparison excited by 
that analogy,) between “‘ paimting and music,” see vol. iii. cap. 10. DE L’ALLE~ 
MaGNe. And is not this connexion still stronger with the original than the copy? 
With the colouring of Nature than of Art ? After all, this is rather to be felt than de- 
scribed ; still I think there are some who will understand it, at least they would have 
done, had they beheld the countenance whose speaking harmony suggested the idea , 
for this passage is not drawn from imagination but memory, that mirror which A fflic- 
tion dashes to the earth, and looking down upon the fragments, only beholds the re- 


flection multiplied ! .- 


Ww 
ἰδ 6) 
σ᾽ 


THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 


Her graceful arms in meekness bending 


Across her gently-budding breast ; — 
At one kind word those arms extending ‘ 
To clasp the neck of him who blest j 


His child caressing and carest 

Zuleika came — and Giaffir felt 

His purpose half within him melt : 

Not that against her fancied weal 

His heart though stern could ever feel ; 
Affection chain’d her to that heart ; 
Ambition tore the links apart. 


Vil. 


* Zuleika! child of gentleness! 
~~ How dear this very day must tell, 
When I forget my own distress, 
In losing what I love so well, 
To bid thee with another dwell : 
Another! and a braver man 
Was never seen in battle’s van. 

We Moslem reck not much of blood ; 
But yet the line of Carasman (’) 
Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood 

First of the bold Timariot bands 

That won and well can keep their lands. 
Enough that he who comes to woo 

is kinsman of the Bey Oglou : 

His years need scarce a thought employ ; 
I would not have thee wed a boy. 

And thou shalt have a noble dower: 
And his and my united power 

Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, 
Which others trembie but to scan, 

And teach the messenger (*) what fate 
The bearer of such boon may wait. 


(1) Carasman Oglou, or Kara Osman Oglou, is the principal landholder in Turkey ; 
he governs Magnesia: those who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess land on con- 
dition of service, are called Timariots: they serve as Spahis, according to the extent 
of territory, and bring a certain number into the field, generaily cavalry. 


(2) When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the single messenger, who 15 δἷ- 
ways the first bearer of the order for his death, is strangled imstead, and sometimes 
five or six, one after the other, on the same errand, by command of the refractory 
patient ; if, on the contrary, he is weak or loyal, he bows, kisses the Sultan’s respect- 
able signature, and is bowstrung with great complacency. In 1810, several of these 
presents were exhibited in the niche of the Seraglio gate ; among others, the head of 
the-Pacha of Bagdat, a brave young man, cut off by treachery, after a desperate re- 

ance. 


THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 289 


And now thou know’st thy father’s will ; 
All that thy sex hath need to know: 

‘Twas mine to teach obedience still — 
The way to love. thy lord may show.” 


VIII. 


In silence bow’d the virgin’s head ; 
And if her eye was fill’d with tears, 
That stifled feeling dare not shed, 
And changed her cheek from pale to red, 
And red to pale, as through her ears 
Those winged words like arrows sped, 
What could such be but maiden fears ? 
So bright the tear m Beauty’s eye, “ 
Love half regrets to kiss it dry; {7 
So sweet the blush of Bashfulness, σ΄ 
Even Pity scarce can wish it less! 
Whate’er it was the sire forgot ; 
Or if remember’d, mark’d it not; 
Thrice clapp’d his hands, and call’d his steed, (᾿) 
Resign’d his gem-adorn’d chibouque, (*) 
And mounting featly for the mead, 
With Maugrabee (*) and Mamaluke, 
His way amid his Delis took, (ἢ) 
To witness many an active deed 
With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed. 
The Kislar only and his Moors 
Watch’d well the Haram’s massy doors. 


ΡΥ itor be 


ENON Ha, 


“reer steamed 


IX. 


His head was leant upon his hand, 

His eye look’d o’er the dark blue water 
That swiftly glides and gently swells 
Between the winding Dardanelles ; 

But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, 
Nor even his Pacha’s turban’d band 


(1) Clapping of the hands calls the servants. The Turks hate ἃ superfluous ex- 
penditure of voice, and they have no bells. 


(2) ‘‘ Chibouque,” the Turkish pipe, of which the amber mouth-piece, and sometimes 
the ball which contains the leaf, is adorned with precious stones, if in possession of the 
weaithier orders. 


(3) "" Maugrabee.” Moorish mercenaries. 


(4) “ Delis,” bravos who form the forlorn hope of the cavalry, and always begin the 
action. 
VOL. ΤΠ τὺ 


290 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 


Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, 
Careering cleave the folded felt (’) q 
With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; 

Nor mark’d the javelin-darting crowd, 
Nor heard their Ollahs (5) wild and loud — 

He thought but of old Giaffir’s daughter ! 


Xe 


No word from Selim’s bosom broke ; 

One sigh Zuleika’s thought bespoke : 

Still gazed he through the lattice grate, 

Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. 

To him Zuleika’s eye was turn’d, 

But little from his aspect learn’d : 

Equal her grief, yet not the same ; 

Her heart confess’d a gentler flame : 

But yet that heart alarm’d or weak, 

She knew not why, forbade to speak. 

Yet speak she must — but when essay ? 

"ς How strange he thus should turn away ! 

Not thus we e’er before have met ; 

Not thus shall be our parting yet.” 

Thrice pac’d she slowly through the room, 
And watch’d his eye — it still was fix’d : 
She snatch’d the urn wherein was mix’d 

The Persian Atar-gul’s (°) perfume, 

And sprinkled all its odours o’er 

The pictured roof (*) and marble floor: 

The drops, that through his glittering vest 

The playful girl’s appeal address’d, 

Unheeded o’er his bosom flew, 

As if that breast were marble too. 

** What, sulien yet? it must not be —— 

Oh! gentle Selim, this from thee ! ” 


Pal 


(1) A twisted fold of felt is used for scimitar practice by the Turks, and few but 
Mussulman arms can cut through it at a single stroke: sometimes a tough turban is 
used for the same purpose. _ The jJerreed is a game of blunt javelins, animated and 
graceful. πλὴν 

(2) ‘*Ollahs,” Alla il Allah, the “ Leiles,” as the Spanish poets call them, the 
sound is Ollah ; a ery of which the Turks, for a silent people, are somewhat profuse, 
particularly during the jerreed, or in the chase, but mostly in battle. Their animation 
in the field, and gravity in the chamber, with their pipes and comboloios, form an 
amusing contrast. 

(3) ““ Atar-gul,” ottar of roses. ‘The Persian is the finest. 

(4) The ceiling and wainscots, or rather walls, of the Mussulman apartments are 
generally painted, in great houses, with one eternal and highly coloured view of Con- 
stantinople, wherein the principal feature is a noble contempt of perspective ; below, 
arms, scimitars, &c. are in general fancifully and not inelegantly disposed. 


THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 29} 


She saw in curious order set 
The fairest flowers of Eastern land — 
“ς Fle loved them once ; may touch them yet, 
If offer’d by Zuleika’s hand.” 
The childish thought was hardly breathed 
Before the Rose was pluck’d and wreathed ; 
The next fond moment saw her seat 
Her fairy form at Selign’s feet: 
* This rose to calm my brother’s cares 
| A message from the Bulbul (*) bears ; 
| it says to-night he will prolong 
| For Selim’s ear his sweetest song ; 
' And though his note is somewhat sad, 
| He'll try for once a strain more glad, 
With some faint hope his alter’d lay 4 
. May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 


i 
ἢ 


XI. 


* What! not receive my foolish flower 7 
Nay then 1 am indeed unblest : 
On me can thus thy forehead lower? 
And know’st thou not who loves thee best ! 
Oh, Selim dear ! oh, mare than dearest ! 
| Say, is it me thou hat’st or fearest ? 
Come, lay thy head upon my breast, 
Ὁ I will kiss thee into rest, 
Since words of mine, and songs must fail, 
Ev’n from my fabled nightingale. 
I knew our sire at times was stern, 
But this from thee had yet to learn 
Too well I know he loves thee not 
But is Zuleika’s love forgot ? 
Ah! deem I right? the Pacha’s plan — 
This kinsman Bey of Carasman 
Perhaps may prove some foe of thine. 
If so, 1 swear by Mecca’s shrine, 
If shrines that ne’er approach allow 
To woman’s step admit her vow, 
Without thy free consent, command, 
The Sultan should not have my hand! 
Think’st thou that I could bear to part 
With thee, and learn to halve my heart? 


“-- Ὁ 


(1) It has been much doubted whether the notes of this ‘‘ Lover of the rose,” are 
sad or merry ; and Mr. Fox’s remarks on the subject have provoked some learned 
controversy as to the opinions of the ancients on the subject. Idare not venture a 
conjecture on the point, though a little inclined to the “ errare mallem,” &c. if Mr. 
Fox was mistaken. 


292 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 


Ah! were I sever’d from thy side, 

Where were thy friend — and who my guide ! 

(eee have not seen, Time shall not see 

The hour that tears my soul from thee : 

Ev’n Azrael, (*) from his deadly quiver 
When flies that shaft, and fly it must, 

That parts all else, shall doom for ever 
Our hearts to undivided dust 1 


ΧΙ. 


He lived — he breathed — he moved — he felt : 
He raised the maid from where she knelt ; 
His trance was gone — his keen eye shone 
With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt : 
With thoughts that burn — in rays that melt. 
-As the stream late conceal’d 
By the fringe of its willows, 
| When it rushes reveal’d 
In the light of its billows ; 
As the bolt bursts on high 
From the black cloud that bound 1t, 
Flash’d the soul of that eye 
Through the long lashes round it. 
A war-horse at the trumpet’s sound, 
A lion roused by heedless hound, 
A tyrant waked to sudden strife 
By graze of ill-directed knife, 
Starts not to more convulsive life 
‘Than he, who heard that vow, display’d, 
And all, before repress’d, betray’d : 
«© Now thou art mine, for ever mine, 
With life to keep, and scarce with life resign : 
Now thou art mine, that sacred oath, 
Though sworn by one, hath bound us both. 
Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done ; 
That vow hath saved more heads than one : 
But blench not thou —thy simplest tress 
Claims more from me than tenderness 
1 would not wrong the slenderest hair 
That clusters round thy forehead fair, 
For all the treasures buried far 
Within the caves of Istakar, (*): 


(1) “ Azrael’? —the angel of death. 


(2) The treasures of the Pre-adamite Sultans. See D’Herpetor, article 
fstakar. 


THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 293 


This morning clouds upon me lower’d, 
Reproaches on my head were shower’d, 
And Giafhir almost call’d me coward ! 
Now I have motive to be brave ; < 
The son of his neglected slave, 

N ay, start not, twas the term he gave, 
May show, though little apt to vaunt 

A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 
His son, indeed ! — yet, thanks to thee 
Perchance I am, at least shall be ; 
} But let our plighted secret vow 

Be only known to us as now. 

I know the wretch who dares demand 
From Giaffir thy reluctant hand ; 

More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul 
Holds not a Musselim’s (*) control : 
Was he not bred in Fgripo ? (ἢ) 

A viler race let Israel show! 

But let that pass — to none be told 
Our oath; the rest shall time unfold. 
To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; 
I’ve partisans for peril’s day : 

Think not 1 am what I appear ; 

I’ve arms, and friends, and vengeance near. ’ 


XIII. 


ς Think not thou art what thou appearest ! 
My Selim, thou art sadly changed : 
This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 

But now thou ’rt from thyself estranged. 
My love thou surely knew’st before, 
It ne’er was less, nor can be more. 
To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay, 

Ae hate the night I know not why, 

Save that we meet not but by day ; 
\ With thee to live, with thee to die, 

\I dare not to my hope deny: 
Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss, 
Like this — and this — no more than this: 
For, Alla! sure thy lips are flame : 

What fever in thy veins is flushing ? 


(1) ‘* Musselim,” a governor, the next in rank after a Pacha; a Waywode is the 
third ; and then come the Agas. 


(2) ** Egripo”—the Negropont. — According to the proverb, the Turks of Egripo, 
the Jews of Salonica, and the Greeks of Athens, are the worst of their respective 
races. 


294 


THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 


My own have nearly caught the same, 

At least I feel my cheek too blushing. 

To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, 

_Partake, but never waste thy wealth, 

Θὲ stand with smiles unmurmuring by, 

And lighten half thy poverty ; 

Do all but close thy dying eye, 

For that I could not live to try ; 

To these alone my thoughts aspire : 

More can 1 do? or thou: require 7 

~ But, Selim, thou must answer why 

We need so much of mystery ? 

The cause I cannot dream nor tell, 

But be it, since thou say’st ’t is well ; 

Yet what thou mean’st by ‘arms’ and " friends,’ 

Beyond my weaker sense extends. 

{ meant that Giaffir should have heard 
The very vow I plighted thee ; 

His wrath would not revoke my word : 
But surely he would leave me free. 
Can this fond wish seem strange in me, 

To be what I have ever been? 

What other hath Zuleika seen 

From simple childhood’s earliest hour? 
What other can she seek to see 

Than thee, companion of her bower, 

The partner of her infancy ? 

These cherish’d thoughts with life begun, 
Say, why must I no more avow? 

What change is wrcught to make me shun 
The truth; my pride, and thine till now 

To meet the gaze of stranger’s eyes 

Our law, our creed, our God denies; 


~~Nor shall one wandering thought of mine 


At such, our Prophet’s will, repine: 
No! happier made by that decree, 

; He left me all in leaving thee. 
Deep were my anguish, thus compell’d 
To wed with one I ne’er beheld : 
This wherefore should I not reveal? 
Why wilt thou urge me to conceal ? 
I know the Pacha’s haughty mood 
To thee hath never boded good: 
And he so often storms at nought, 
Allah! forbid that e’er he ought ! 


THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 295 


And why, I know not, but within 
My heart concealment weighs like sin. 
If then such secrecy be crime, 

And such it feels while lurking here ; 
Oh, Selim! tell me yet in time, 

Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. 
Ah! yonder see the T’chocadar, (’) 
My father leaves the mimic war ; 
I tremble now to meet his eye — 
Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why ?” 


XIV. 
‘ Zuleika! to. thy tower’s retreat 
Betake thee — Giaffir I can greet : 
_ And now with him I fain must prate 
Of firmans, impost, levies, state. 
There’s fearful news from Danube’s banks, 
Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks, 
For which the Giaour may give him thanks! 
- Our Sultan hath a shorter way 
Such costly triumph to repay. 
But, mark me, when the twilight drum 
Hath warn’d the troops to food and sleep, 
Unto thy cell will Selim come : 
Then softly from the Haram creep 
Where we may wander by the deep: 
Our garden-battlements are steep ; 
Nor these will rash intruder climb 
To list our words, or stint our time ; 
And if he doth, I want not steel 
Which some have felt, and more may feel. 
Then shalt thou learn of Selim more 
Than thou hast heard or thought before 
Trust me, Zuleika — fear not me! 
Thou know’st I hold a Haram key.” 


σ' 
ἴω 


“ Fear thee, my Selim! ne’er till now 
Did word hike this — ” 

«ς Delay not thou; 
I keep the key — and Haroun’s guard 
Have some, and hope of more reward. 
To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear 
My tale, my purpose, and my fear : 
I am not, love! what I appear.” 


1) ‘“ Tchocadar”’ — one of the attendants who precedes a man of authority. 
P y 


THE 


BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 


CANTO THE SECOND. 


1. 


Tue winds are high on Helle’s wave, 

As on that night of stormy water 
When Love, who sent, forgot to save 
The young, the beautiful, the brave, 

The lonely hope of Sestos’ daughter. 
Oh! when alone along the sky 
Her turret-torch was blazing high, 
Though rising gale, and breaking foam, 
And shrieking sea-birds warn’d him home ; 
And clouds aloft and tides below, 

With signs and sounds, forbade to go, 
He could not see, he would not hear, 

Or sound or sign foreboding fear ; 

His eye but saw that light of love, 

The only star it hail’d above ; 

His ear but rang witii Hero’s song, 

*« Ye waves, divide noi lovers long !””? — 
That tale is old, but love anew 

‘iay nerve young hearts to prove as true. 


SS 


li. 


The winds are high, and Helle’s tide 
Rolls darkly heaving to the main ; 
And Night’s descending shadows hide 
, That field with biood bedew’d in vain, 
\The desert of old Priam’s pride ; 
ὃ The tombs, sole relics of his reign, 
All — save immortal dreams that could beguile 
The blind old man of Scio’s rocky isle ! 


bo 
ites) 
“ὦ 


CANTO I}. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 


Kilt. 


Oh! yet — for there my steps have been ; 

These feet have press’d the sacred shore, 
These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne —  ® 
Minstrel! with thee to muse, to mourn, 

To trace again those fields of yore, 
Believing every hillock green 

‘Contains no fabled hero’s ashes, 
And that around the undoubted scene 

Thine own “ broad Hellespont ” (’) still dashes, 
Be long my lot! and cold were he 
Who there could gaze denying thee ! 


Iv. 
The night hath closed on Helle’s stream, 
Nor yet hath risen on Ida’s hill 
That moon, which shone on his high theme : 
No warrior chides her peaceful beam, 
But conscious shepherds bless it still,/ 
Their flocks are grazing on the mound / 
Of him who felt the Dardan’s arrow : 
That mighty heap of gather’d ground 
Which Ammon’s (7) son ran proudly round. 
By nations raised, by monarchs crown’d, » 
is now a lone and nameless barrow! 
Within — thy dwelling-place how narrow! 
Within — can only strangers breathe 
The name of him that was beneath : 
Dust long outlasts the storied stone ;4 
But ‘Thou — thy very dust is gone ! 


Vis 


Late, late to-night will Dian cheer 
The swam, and chase the boatman’s fear ; 


(1) The wrangling about this epithet, ‘ the broad Hellespont” or the ‘‘ boundless 
Hellespont,” whether it means one or the other, or what it means at all, has been 
beyond all possibility of detail. Ihave even heard it disputed on the spot; and not 
foreseeing a speedy conclusion to the controversy, amused myself with swimming 
across it m the mean time, and probably may again, before the point is settled. In- 
deed, the question as to the truth of ‘“ the tale of Troy divine ” still continues, much 
of it resting upon the talismanic word ‘ arevpos:” probably Homer had the same 
notion of disiauce that a coquette has of tin’, and wher he talks of boundless, means 
half a mile; as the latter, by a like figure, when she says eternal attachment, simply 
specifies three weeks. 

(2) Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the altar with laurel, &c: He was 
afterwards imitated by Caracalla in his race. It is believed that the last also poi- 
soned a friend, named Festus, forthe sake of new Patreclan games, I have seen 
i eee feeding on the tombs of Adsietes and Antilochus; the first is in the centre 
of the plain, 


Μ᾿ 398°" THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. CANTO 31. 


Till then — no beacon on the cliff 
May shape the course of struggling skiff ; 
he scatier’d lights that skir 
All, one by one, havevdéd away ; 
The only lamp of this lone hour 
Is glimmering in Zuleika’s tower. 
Yes! there is light in that lone chamber, 
And o’er her silken Ottoman 
Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber, 
O’er which her fairy fingers ran ; (ἢ) 
Near these, with emerald rays beset, _ 
(How could she thus that gem forget 1) 
Her mother’s sainted amulet, (*) 
‘Whereon engraved the Koorsee text, 
Could smooth this life, and win the next ; 
And by her comboloio (*) lies 
A Koran of illumined dyes ; 
And many a bright emblazon’d rhyme 
By Persian scribes redeem’d from time ; 
And o’er those scrolls, not oft so mute, 
Reclines her now neglected lute ; 
And round her lamp of fretted gold 
Bloom flowers in urns of China’s mould ; 
The richest work of Iran’s loom, 
-And Sheeraz’ tribute of perfume ; 
Ail that can eye or sense delight 
Are gather’d in that gorgeous room : 
But yet it hath an air of gloom. 
She, of this Peri cell the sprite, 
What doth she hence, and on so rude a night ? 


Vi. 


Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, 
Which none save noblest Moslem wear, 
To guard from winds of heaven the breast 
«As heaven itself to Selim dear, 


(1) When rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a perfume, which 15 slight but not 
disagreeable. 

(2) The belief in amulets engraved on gems, or enclosed in gold boxes, containing 
scraps from the Koran, worn round the neck, wrist, or arm, 15 still universal in the 
East. The Koorsee (throne) verse in the second chap. of the Koran describes the 
attributes of the Most High, and is engraved in this manner, and worn by the pious, 
as the most esteemed and sublime of all sentences. 

(3) “ Comboloio” —a Turkish rosary. The MSS., particularly those of the 
Persians, are richly adorned and illuminated. The Greek females are kept in utter 
ignorance ; but many of the Turkish girls are highly accomplished, though not actu- 
ally qualified for a Christian coterie. Perhaps some of our own “ blues” might not 
be the worse for bleaching. 


CANTO Il. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 


With cautious steps the thicket threading, 
And starting oft, as through the glade 
The gust its hollow moanings made, 

Till on the smoother pathway treading, 

More free her timid bosom beat, 

The maid pursued her silent guide ; 

And though her terror urged retreat, 
How could she quit her Selim’s side ¢ 
How teach her tender lips to chide? 


Vii. 


They reach’d at length a grotto, hewn 
By nature, but enlarged by art, 
Where oft her lute she wont to tune, 
And oft her Koran conn’d apart ; 
And oft in youthful reverie 
She dream’d what Paradise might be 
Where woman’s parted soul shall go 
Her Prophet had disdain’d to show ; 
But Selim’s mansion was secure, 
Nor deem’d she, could he long endure 
His bower in other worlds of bliss, 
Without her, most beloved in this! 
Oh! who so dear with him could dwell? 
What Houri soothe him half so well ? 


VIll. 


Since last she visited the spot 

Some change seem’d wrought within the grot : 
It might be only that the night 

Disguised things seen by better light : 
That brazen lamp but dimly threw 

A ray of no celestial hue ; 

But in a nook within the cell 

Her eye on stranger objects fell. 

There arms were piled, not such as wield 
The turban’d Delis in the field ; 

But brands of foreign blade and hilt, 

And one was red — perchance with guilt ! 
Ah! how without can blood be spilt ? 

A cup too on the board was set 

That did not seem to hold sherbet. 

What may this mean? she turn’d to see 
Her Selim — * Oh! can this be he?” 


390 


THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canines, 


IX. 


His robe of pride was thrown aside, 

His brow no high-crown’d turban bore, 
But in its stead a shawl of red, 

Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore : 
That dagger, on whose hilt the gem 
Were worthy ofa diadem, 
No longer glitter’d at his waist, 
Where pistols unadorn’d were braced ; 
And from his belt a sabre swung, 
And from his shoulder loosely hung 
The cloak of white, the thin capote 
That decks the wandering Candiote ; 
Beneath — his golden-plated vest 
Clung like a cuirass to his breast ; 
The greaves below his knee that wound 
With silvery scales were sheathed and bound. 
But were it not that high command 


Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, 


All that a careless eye could see 
In him was some young Galiongée. (') 


Xe 


* | said I was not what I seem’d; 

And now thou see’st my words were true : 
T have a tale thou hast not dream/’d, 

If sooth — its truth must others rue. 
My story now ’t were vain to hide ; 
I must not see thee Osman’s bride : 
But had not thine own lips declared 
How much of that young heart I shared, 
I could not, must not, yet have shown 
The darker secret of my own. 
In this I speak not now of love ; 
That, let time, truth, and peril prove : 
But first — Oh! never wed another — 
Zuleika! I am not thy brother!” 


(1) ‘* Galiongée” — or Galiongi, a sailor, that is, a Turkish sailor; the Greeks 
navigate, the Turks work the guns. Their dress is picturesque; and I have seen 
the Capitan Pacha more than once wearing it as a kind ofincog. Their legs, how- 
ever, are generally naked. The buskins described in the text as sheathed behind 
with silver are those of an Arnaut robber, who was my host, (he had quitted the pro- 
fession,) at his Pyrgo, near Gastouni in the Morea; they were plated in scales one 
over the other, like the back of an armadillo. 


CANTO II. THE. BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 901. WY 


pn 
“ Oh! not my brother ! — yet unsay — 

God! am 1 left alone on earth 
To mourn — I dare not curse — the day 

‘That saw my solitary birth ? 

Oh! thou wilt love me now no more! 

My sinking heart foreboded ill ; 

But know me all I was before, 

Thy sister — friend — Zuleika still. 
Thou led’st me here perchance to kill ; 

if thou hast cause for vengeance, see ! 
My breast 15 offer’d —— take thy fill! 

Far better with the dead.to be 

‘Than live thus nothing now to thee : 
Perhaps far worse, for now I know 
Why Giaffir always seem’d thy foe ; 

And 1, alas! am Guafhir’s child, 
For whom thou wert contemn’d, reviled. 
If not thy sister — would’st thou save — 
My life, Oh! bid me be thy slave!” 
XII. 
“« My slave, Zuleika ! — nay, I’m thine: .. « 

But, gentle love, this transport calm, 

Thy lot shall yet be link’d with mine ; 
I swear it by our Prophet’s shrine, 

And be that thought thy sorrow’s balm. 
So may the Koran (') verse display’d 
Upon its steel direct my blade, 

In danger’s hour to guard us both, 
As I preserve that awful oath! 
The name in which thy heart hath prided 

Must change ; but, my Zuleika, know, 
That tie is widen’d, not divided, 

Although thy Sire’s my deadliest foe. 
My father was to Giaffir all 

That Selim late was deem’d to thee ; | 
That brother wrought a brother’s fall, 

But spared, at least, my infancy ; 


(1) The characters on all Turkish scimitars contain sometimes the name of the 
place of their manufacture, but more generally a text from the Koran, in letters of 
gold. Among those in my possession, is one with a blade of singular construction ; 
it is very broad, and the edge notched into serpentine curves like the ripple of water, 
or the wavering of flame. 1 asked the Arminian who sold it, what possible use such 
a figure could add: he said, in Italian, that he did not know: but the Mussulmans 
had an idea that those of this form gave a séverer wound ; and liked it because it was 
‘piu feroce.”” TI did not much admire the reason, but bought it for its peculiarity. 


302 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. CANTO I. 


And lull’d me with a vain deceit 

That yet a like return may meet. 

He rear’d me, not with tender help, 
But like the nephew of a Cain ; (’) 

He watch’d me like a lion’s whelp, 
That gnaws and yet may break his chain. 
My father’s blood in every vein 

Is boiling ; but for thy dear sake 

No present vengeance will I take ; 
Though here I must no more remain. 

But first, belov’d Zuleika! hear 

How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear. 


AXIfi. 


‘‘ How first their strife to rancour grew, 
Iflove or envy made them foes. 
It matters little if 1 knew ; 
in fiery spirits, slights, though few 
And thoughtless, will disturb repose. 
In war Abdallah’s arm was strong, 
Remember’d yet in Bosniac song, 
And Paswan’s (”) rebel hordes attest 
How little love they bore such guest : 
His death is all I need relate, 
The stern effect of Giafhir’s hate ; 
And how my birth disclosed to me, 
Whate’er beside it makes, hath made me free. 


XIV. 


ες When Paswan, after years of strife, 
At last for power, but first for life, 
In Widin’s walls too proudly sate, 
Our Pachas rallied round the state ; 
Nor last nor least in high command, 
Each brother led a separate band ; 


(1) It is to be observed, that every allusion to any thing or personage in the Old 
Testament, such as the ark, or Cain, is equally the privilege of Mussulman and Jew: 
sndeed, the former profess to be much better acquainted with the lives, true and fa- 
bulous, of the patriarchs, than is warranted by our own sacred writ ; and not content 
with Adam, they have a biography of Pre-Adamites. Solomon is the monarch of 
all necromancy, and Moses a prophet inferior only to Christ and Mahomet. Zuleika 
is the Persian name of Potiphar’s wife; and her amour with Joseph constitutes one of 
the finest poems in their language. It is, therefore,no violation of costume to put the 
names of Cain, or Noah, into the mouth of a Moslem. 


2) Paswan Ozglou, the rebel of Widin ; who, for the last years of his life, set the 
whole power of the Porte at defiance. 


C4NTO Il, THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 303 


They gave their horsetails (*) to the wind, 
And mustering in Sophia’s plain - 
Their tents were pitch’d, their post assigu’d ; 
To one, alas! assign’d in vain! 
What need of words? the deadly bowl, 
By Giaffir’s order druge’d and given, 
With venom subtle as his soul, 
Dismiss’d Abdallah’s hence to heaven. 
Reclined and feverish in the bath, 
He, when the hunter’s sport was up, 
But little deem’d a brother’s wrath 
To quench his thirst had such a cup : 
The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; 
He drank one draught, (*) nor needed more! 
If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt, 
Call Haroun — he can tell it out. 


XV. 


Ὁ The deed once done, and Paswan’s feud 
In part’suppress’d, though ne’er subdued, 
Abdallah’s Pachalick was gain’d : — 

Thou know’st not what in our Divan 

Can wealth procure for worse than man — 
Abdallah’s honours were obtain’d 

By him a brother’s murder stain’d ; 

Tis true, the purchase nearly drain’d 

His ill got treasure, soon replaced. 

Would’st question whence ? Survey the waste, 

And ask the squalid peasant how 

His gains repay his broiling brow ! — 

Why me the stern usurper spared, 

Why thus with me his palace shared, 

I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, 

And little fear from infant’s force ; 

Besides, adoption as a son 

By him whom Heaven accorded none, 

Or some unknown cabal, caprice, 

Preserved me thus ; — but not in peace : 

He cannot curb his haughty mood, 

Nor I forgive a father’s blood. 


(1) ““ Horsetail,” the standard of a Pacha. 


(2) Giaflir, Pacha of Argyro Castro, or Scutari, Γ am not sure which, was actually 
taken off by the Albanian Ali, in the manner described im the text. Ali Pacha, while 
I was in the country, married the daughter of his victim, some years after the event 
had taken place at a bath in Sophia, or Adrianople. T'he poison was mixed in the 
cup of coffee, which is presented before the sherbet by the bath-keeper, after dress- 
ing, 


304 


THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. CANTO 1} 


XVI. 


“« Within thy father’s house are foes ; 
Not all who break his bread are true : 
‘T’o these should I my birth disclose, 
His days, his very hours were few : 
‘They only want a heart to lead, 
A hand to point them to the deed. 
But Haroun only knows or knew , 
This tale, whose close is almost nigh : 
He in Abdallah’s palace grew, 
And held that post in his Serai 
Which holds he here — he saw him die: 
But what could single slavery do? 
Avenge his lord? alas! too late ; 
Or save his son from such a fate ? 
He chose the last, and when elate 
With foes subdued, or friends betray’d, 
Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate, 
He led me helpless to his gate, 
And not in vain it seems essay’d 
To save the life for which he pray’d. 
The knowledge of my birth secured 
From all and each, but most from me ; 
Thus Giaffir’s safety was ensured. 
Removed he too from Roumelie 
To this our Asiatic side, 

Far from our seats by Danube’s tide, 
With none but Haroun, who retains 
Such knowledge — and that Nubian feeis 

A tyrant’s secrets are but chains, 
From which the captive gladly steals, 
And this and more to me reveals : 

Such still to guilt just Alla sends — 
Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends ! 


XVII. 


« All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds ; 
But harsher still my tale must be : 
Howe’er my tongue thy softness wounds, 
Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 
I saw thee start this garb to see, 
Yet is it one I oft have worn, 
And long must wear : this Galiongée, 
To whom thy plighted vow is sworn, 
Is leader of those pirate hordes, 
Whose laws and lives are on their swords ; 


CANTO II. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 306 


To hear whose desolating tale 
Would make thy waning cheek more pale ; 
Those arms thou see’st my band have brought, 
The hands that wield are not remote ; 
This cup too for the rugged knaves 

Is fill’d — once quafl’d, they ne’er repine : 
Our prophet might forgive the slaves ; 

They ’re only infidels in wine. 


XVIII. 


* What could I be? Proscribed at home, 
And taunted to a wish to roam ; 
And listless left — for Giaffir’s fear 
Denied the courser and the spear — 
Though oft — Oh, Mahomet! how oft !— 
In full Divan the despot scoff’d, 
As if my weak unwilling hand 
Refused the bridle or the brand : 
He ever went to war alone, 
And pent me here untried—unknown ; 
To Haroun’s care with women left, 
By hope unblest, of fame bereft, 
While thou —— whose softness long endear’d, 
Though it unmann’d me, still had cheer’d — 
To Brusa’s walls for safety sent, 
Awaited’st there the field’s event. 
Haroun, who saw my spirit pming 
Beneath inaction’s sluggish yoke, 
His captive, though with dread resigning, 


My thraldom for a season broke, yey alli i 
On pumice to return before peti ai 
The day when Giaflir’s charge was o’er. / (space 
Tis vain — my tongue cannot impart , 

My almost drunkenness of heart, =r 

When first this liberated eye Labbe 1 
Survey’d Earth, Ocean, Sun, and Sky 

As if my spirit pierced them through, &trar-~ 

And all their inmost wonders knew! 

One word alone can paint to thee 

That more than feeling -— L.was Free! 

E’en for thy presence coast TO ΤΕ τ 


The World — nay, Heaven itself was mine! 


΄ 


XIX. 

The shallop of a trusty Moor 
Convey’d me from this idle shore ; 
VOL. IIl.—X 


6 


o 


306 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. CANTO i 


i long’d to see the isles that gem 

Old Ocean’s purple diadem : 

I sought by turns, and saw them all; (’) 
But when and where I join’d the crew, 

With whom I ’m pledged to rise or fall, 
When all that we design to do 

Is done, ’t will then be time more meet 

To tell thee, when the tale ’s complete. 


XX. 


* Tis true, they are a lawless brood, 
But rough in form, nor mild in mood ; 
And every creed, and every race, 
With them hath found — may find a place: 
But open speech, and ready hand, 
Obedience to their chief?s command ; 
A soul for every enterprise, 
That never sees with Terror’s eyes ; 
Friendship for each, and faith to all, 
And vengeance vow’d for those who fall, 
Have made them fitting instruments 
For more than ev’n my own intents. 
And some — and [ have studied all 
Distinguish’d from the vulgar rank, 
But chiefly to my council call 
The wisdom of the cautious Frank — 
And some to higher thoughts aspire, 
The last of Lambro’s (*) patriots there 
Anticipated freedom share ; 
And oft around the cavern fire 
. » On visionary schemes debate, 
To snatch the Rayahs (°) from their fate. 
So let them ease their hearts with prate 
~ Of equal rights, which man ne’er knew ; 
' «+» ὦ 1 have a love for freedom too. 
Ay! let me like the ocean-Patriarch (*) roam, 
Or only know oft land the Tartar’s home ! (°) 


(1) The Turkisi notions δὲ almost all islands are confined to the Archipelago, the 
sea alluded to. - 

(2) Lambro Canzani, a Greck, famoys for his efforts, in 1789-90, for the indepen- 
dence of his country ; abamdonea by the Russians, he became a pirate, and the 
Archipelago was the scene of his enterprises. He is said to be still alive αἱ Peters- 
burg. He and Riga are the two most celebrated of the Greek revolutionists. 

(3) ‘* Rayahs,”—all who pay the capitation tax, called tne ‘* Haratch.” 

(4) The first of voyages is one of the few with which the Mussulmans profess 
much acquaintance. 

(5) The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and Turkomans will be found well 


as 


CANTO II. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 307 


My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, 
Are more than cities and Serais to me : 
Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, 


Across the desert, or before, the gue, banc : ἡ 

Bound where thou wilt, my barb! or glide, my brow! Usenita 

@But be the star that guides the wanderer, Thou! f p 
Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark ; 


The Dove of peace’and promise to mine ark ! Aafe— 

Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 
®Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life ! \onne 
τ evening beam that smiles the clouds away, --.. 

And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! χινάκ 


Blest — as the Muezzin’s strain from Mecca’s wall = 
To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call; ὁ 
Soft — as the melody of youthful days, 

That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise ; 
Dear — as his native song to Exile’s ears, 

Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears. 
For thee in those bright isies is built a bower 
Blooming as Aden (’) in its earliest hour. 

A thousand swords, with Selim’s heart and hand, 
Wait —- wave — defend — destroy ---- at thy command ! 
Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side, ἢ : 
The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. 

The Haram’s languid years of listless ease 

Are well resign’d for cares — for joys like these : 
Not blind to fate, I see, where’er [ rove, 
Unnumber’d perils — but one only love! 

Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, 
Though fortune frown, or falser friends betray. 

How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill, 

Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still ! 

Be but thy soul, like Selim’s, firmly shown ; 

To thee be Selim’s tender as thine own; 

‘Yo soothe each sorrow, share in each delight, 
Blend every thought, do all — but disunite ! 

Once free, *tis mine our horde again to guide ; 
Friends to each other, foes to aught beside : 

Yet there we follow but the bent assign’d 

By fatal Nature to man’s. warring kind ; 


detailed in any book of Eastern travels. That it possesses a charm peculiar to itself 
cannot be denied. A young French renegado confessed to Chateaubriand, that he 
never found himself alone, galloping in the desert, without a sensation approaching 
to rapture, which was indescribable. 7 


(1) ““ Jannat al Aden,” the perpetual abode, the Mussulman Paradise. 


308 


THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. CANTO [i 


Mark! where his carnage and his conquests cease ! 

He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace! 

I, like the rest, must use my skill or strength, 

Buteagk no land beyond my sabre’s length: 

Power sways but by division — her resource 

The blest alternative of fraud or force! 9 
Ours be the last ; in time deceit may come 
When cities cage us in a social home : 

There ev’n thy soul might err — how oft the heart 
Corruption shakes which peril could not part! 
And woman, more than man, when death or woe, 
Or even Disgrace, would lay her lover low, : 
Sunk in the lap of Luxury will shame — 

Away suspicion! noé Zuleika’s name ! 

But life is hazard at the best; and here 

No more remains to win, and much to fear. 

Yes, fear !— the doubt, the dread of losing thee, 

By Osman’s power, and Giaffir’s stern decree. 

That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale, 

Which love to-night hath promised to my sail: 

No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest, 

Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 

With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms ; 
Earth — sea alike — our world within our arms ! 

Ay — let the loud winds whistle o’er the deck, 

So that those arms cling closer round my neck : 

The deepest murmur of this lip shall be 

No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 

The war of elements no fears impart 

To Love, whose deadliest bane is human Art: 

There lie the only rocks our course can check ; 

Here moments menace — there are years of wreck ! 
But hence ye thoughts that rise i Horror’s shape ! 
This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. 

Few words remain of mine my tale to close ; 

Of thine but one to waft us from our foes 3 

Yea — foes —to me will Giaffir’s hate decline ? 

And is not Osman, who would part us, thine ? 


xT. 
‘* His head and faith from doubt and death 
Return’d in time my guard to save ; 
Few heard, none told, that o’er the wave 
From isle to isle 1 roved the while: 
And since, though parted from my band, 
Too seldom now I leave the land, 


CANTO Li. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 


-» 


No deed they ’ve done, nor deed shall do, 
Ere I have heard and doom/’d it too: 

I form the plan, decree the spoil, 

Tis fit I oftener share the toil. 

But now too long I ᾽να held thine ear ; 
Time presses, floats my bark, and here’ 
We leave behind but hate and fear. 
To-morrow Osman with his train 

Arrives — to-night must break thy chain : 
And would’st thou save that haughty Bey, 

Perchance his life who gave thee thine, 
With me this hour away — away ! 

But yet, though thou art plighted mine, 
Would’st thou recall thy willing vow, 
Appall’d by truths imparted now, 

Here rest I — not to see thee wed: 
But be that peril on my head!” 


xX, 
Zuleika, mute and motionless, 
Stood like that statue of distress, 
When, her last hope for ever gone, 
The mother harden’d into stone ; 
All in the maid that eye could see 
Was but a younger Niobé., 

But ere her lip, or even her eye, 
Essay’d to speak, or look reply, 
Beneath the garden’s wicket porch 
Far flash’d on high a blazing torch ! 
Another — and another — and another — 


309 


“Ὁ! fly — no more — yet now my more than brother!” 


Far, wide, through every thicket spread, 
The fearful lights are gleaming red ; 
Nor these alone — for each right hand 
Is ready with a sheathless brand. 

They part, pursue, return, and wheel 
With searching flambeau, shining steel ; 
And last of all, his sabre waving, 

Stern Giaffir in his fury raving : 

And now almost they touch the cave — 
Oh! must that grot be Selim’s grave ? 


XXIII. 


auntless he stood — ““ ’T' is come — soon past — 


a A kiss, Zuleika —’t is my last : 


310 


THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 


But yet my band not far from shore 
May hear this signal, see the flash ; 
Yet now too few — the attempt were rash : 

No matter — yet one effort more.” 
Forth to the cavera mouth he stept ; 

His pistol’s echo rang on high, 
Zuleika started not, nor wept, 

Despair benumb’d her breast and eye! — 
‘“« They hear me not, or if they ply 
Their oars, ’t is but to see me die ; 
That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. 
Then forth my father’s scimitar, 
Thou ne’er hast seen less. equal war ! 
Farewell, Zuleika! — Sweet! retire: 

Yet stay within — here linger safe, 

At thee his rage will only chafe. 
Stir not — lest even to thee perchance 
Some erring blade or ball should glance. 
Fear’st thou for him ? — may I expire 
If in this strife I seek thy sire ! | 
No — though by him that poison pour’d: 
No — though again he call me coward! 
But tamely shall I meet their steel ? 
No — as each crest save his may feel!” 


XXIV. 


One bound he made, and gain’d the sand: 
Already at his feet hath sunk 


- The foremost of the prying band, 


A gasping head, a quivering trunk : 
Another falls — but round him close 
A swarming circle of his foes ; 

From right to left his path he cleft, 
And almost met the meeting wave : 
His boat appears — not five oars’ length’— 

His comrades strain with desperate strength — 
Oh! are they yet in time to save ? 

His feet the foremost breakers lave ; 

His band are plunging in the bay, 

Their sabres glitter through the spray ; 

Wet —- wild — unwearied to the strand 

They struggle — now they touch the land! 

They come —’t is but to add to slaughter — 

His heart's b best blood i is on the water, 


CANTO iI, 


TANTO IT, THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. oll 


XV. 
Escaped from shot, unharm’d by steel, 
Or scarcely grazed its force to feel, 
Had Selim won, betray’d, beset, 
To where the strand and billows met; 
There as his last step left the land, 
And the last death-blow dealt his hand — 
Ah! wherefore did he turn to look 

For her his eye but sought in vain? 
That pause, that fatal gaze he took, 

Hath doom’d his death, or fix’d his chain. 
Sad proof, in peril and in pain, 
How late will Lover’s hope remain ! 
His back was to the dashing spray ; 
Behind, but close, his comrades lay, 
When, at the instant, hiss’d the ball — 
‘© So may the foes of Giaffir fall!” 
Whose voice is heard? whose carbine rang ? 
Whose bullet through the night-air sang, 
‘Too nearly, deadly aim’d to err? 
’T is thine — Abdallah’s Murderer ! 
The father slowly rued thy hate, 
The son hath found a quicker fate : 
Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, 
The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling — 
If aught his lips essay’d to groan, . 
The rushing billows chok’d the tone! 


XXVI. 


Morn slowly roils the clouds away ; 
Few trophies of the fight are there : 
The shouts that shook the midnight-bay 

Are silent ; but some signs of fray 
That strand of strife may bear, 
And fragments of each shiver’d brand ; 
Steps stamp’d; and dash’d into the sand 
The print of many a struggling hand 
May there be mark’d; nor far remote 
A broken torch, an oarless boat ; 
And tangled on the weeds that heap 
The beach where shelving to the deep 
There lies a white capote! 
T’ is rent in twain — one dark-red stain 
The wave yet ripples o’er in vain: 


wy) 


THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. ZANTO τι. 


But where is he who wore ? 
Ye! who would o’er his relics weep, 
Go, seek them where the surges sweep 
Their burthen round Sigzeum’s steep, 
And cast on Lemnos’ shore : 
The sea-birds shriek above the prey, 
O’er which their hungry beaks delay, 
As shaken on his restless pillow, 
His head heaves with the heaving billow ; 
That hand, whose motion is not life, 
Yet feebly seems to menace strife, 
Flung by the tossing tide on high, 
Then levell’d with the wave — 
What recks it, though that corse shall lie 
Within a living grave ἧς 
The bird that tears that prostrate form 
Hath only robb’d the meaner worm ; 
The only heart, the only eye 
Had bled or wept to see him die, 
Had seen those scatter’d limbs composed. 
And mourn’d above his turban-stone, (’) 
‘That heart hath burst — that eye was closed — 
Yea — closed before his own! 


XXVIII. 


ὁ By Helle’s stream there is a voice of wail ! 


And woman’s eye is wet — man’s cheek is pale : 
Zuleika! last of Giaffir’s race, 
Thy destined lord is come too late ; 
He sees not —ne’er shall see thy face! 
Can he not hear 
The loud Wul-wulleh (5) warn his distant ear ? 
Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, 
The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate, 
The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, 
Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, 
Tell him thv tale ! 
Thou didst not view thy Selim fall ! 
That fearful moment when he left the cave 
Thy heart grew chill: 
He was thy hope — thy joy — thy love — thine all — 


{1) A turban is carved in stone above the graves of men only. 
(2) The death-song of the Turkish women. The “ silent slaves” are the men, 


whose notions of decorum forbid complaint in public. 


CANTO Il. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 313 


And that last thought on him thou could’st not save 
Sufficed to kill ; 

Burst forth in one wild ery — and all was still. 

Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave ! 
Ah! happy! but of life to lose the worst! 
That grief — though deep — though fatal — was thy first ! 
Thrice happy ! ne’er to feel nor fear the force ‘ 
Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse ! 
And, oh! that pang where more than Madness lies ! 
The worm that will not sleep — and never dies ; 
Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, 
That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light, 
That winds around and tears the quivering heart ! 
Ah! wherefore not consume it — and depart! 
Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! 

Vainly thou heap’st the dust upon thy head, 

Vainly the sackcloth o’er thy limbs doth spread : 

By that same hand Abdallah — Selim bled. 
Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief: 
Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman’s bed, 
She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed, 

Thy Daughter’s dead! _ 

Hope of thine age, thy twilight’s lonely beam, 

The Star hath set that shone on Helle’s stream. 
What quench’d its ray ? — the blood that thou hast shed ! 
Hark! to the hurried question of Despair : 
ἐς Where is my child?” — an Echo answers —‘* Where?” (’) 


XXVIII. 
Within the place of thousand tombs 
That shine beneath, while dark above 
( The sad but living cypress glooms, 
ἈΠ withers not, though branch andleaf 
Are stamp’d with an eternal grief, 
Like early unrequited Love, 
One spot exists, which ever blooms, 
Ev’n in that deadly gfove — 


Σ. wLaingie rose is shedding thers 
Its lonely lustre, meek and pale: 


It looks as planted by Despair — 
So white — so faint — the slightest gale 


(1) “1 came to the place of my birth, and cried, ‘ The friends of my youth, where 
are they ?’ and an Echo answered,‘ Where are they ??” From an Arabic MS. 

The above quotation (from which the idea in the text is taken) must be already 
familiar to every reader: it is given in the first annotation, page 67, of “ the Plea- 
sures of Memory ;”’ a poem so well known as to render a reference almost superflu- 
ous ; but to whose pages all will be delighted to recur. 


ΠΝ THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. CANTO It 


Might whirl the leaves on high ; 
And yet, though storms and blight assail, 
And hands more rude than wintry sky 
May wring it from the stem — in vain — 
To-morrow sees it bloom again! 
~ ‘ The stalk some spirit gently rears, 
And waters with celestial tears ; 
For well may maids of Helle deem 
That this can be no earthly flower, 
Which mocks the tempest’s withering hour, 
And buds unshelter’d by a bower ; 
Nor droops, though spring refuse her shower 
Nor woos the summer beam : 
To it the livelong night there sings 
A bird unseen — but not remote : 
Invisible his airy wings, 
But soft as harp that Houri strings 
His long entrancing note! 
3 It were the Bulbul; but his throat, 
Though mournful, pours not such a strain ; 
For they who listen cannot leave 
The spot, but linger there and grieve, 
As if they loved in vain! 
And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 
Tis sorrow so unmix’d with dread, 
They scarce can bear the morn to break 
That melancholy spell, 
And longer yet would weep and wake, 
' He sings so wild and well! 
But when the day-blush bursts from high ~ 
Expires that magic melody 
And some have been who could believe, Fue } 
(So fondly youthful dreams deceive, 
Yet harsh be they that blame,) 
That note so piercing and profound 
Will shape and syllable its sound 
Into Zuleika’s name. (Ὁ) 


sy 


(1) « And airy tongues that syllable men s names.” 
i MitTon. 

For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the form of birds, we need not travel 
to the East. Lord Lyttleton’s ghost story, the behef of the Duchess of Kendal, that 
George I, flew into her window in the shape of a raven, (see Orford’s Reminiscen- 
ces,) and many other instances, bring this superstition nearer home. The most sin- 
gular was the whim of a Worcester lady, who, believing her daughter to exist in 
the shape of a singing bird, literally furnished her pew in the cathedral with cages full 
of the kind; and as she was rich, and a benefactress in beautifying the church, no 
objection was made to her harmless folly. For this anecdote, see Orford’s Letters. 


CANTO 11. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 315 


°T is from her cypress summit heard, 

That melts in air the liquid word : 

Ὕ is trom her lowly virgin earth 

That white rose takes its tender birth. 

There late was laid a marble stone ; 

Eve saw it placed — the Morrow gone ! 

It was no mortal arm that bore 

That deep-fix’d pillar to the shore ; 

For there, as Helle’s legends tell, 

Next morn-’twas found where Selim fell ; 

Lash’d by the tumbling tide, whose wave 

Denied his bones a holier grave : 

And there by night, reclined, ’t is said, 

Is seen a ghastly turban’d head: 
And hence extended by the billow, J 
’T is named the “ Pirate-phantom’s pillow!” =“ 
Where first it lay that mournmg Hower 
Hath flourished ; flourisheth this hour, . 

Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; i 

As weeping Beauty’s cheek at Sorrow’s tale! 


bee 317. — ἡ ne J 


a nie eet ae 

Pie ΧΡ. ir ceneeescinanmamnar att 

ἐὰν δ ἐὼν ad earn Pb tents αι coe nT 

ΠῚ hin ae tema a 
ΠΟ Δ ΠΡΟ Set fone: oi T° 
Υ ἜΤ. anak πὸ γδεΐ. ἘΣΤΊΝ 
ἡεύληκηναν ἐπα οηντροδ dank” 

nen bis ED: mierok has-aiwhA . 

tradiy shes ψόφον κλ. 


ἢ tag Whe. ariel Tho ei: Shaye ee: 
ae ΠΊΩΝ aie au te Ἐν ko . CAME 


ee eed “Pad tig a 
NB Fae wy mia ih τος ΘΗΝ 
sad Denia ἂν: ἄπιμεν ων Μὴν Ane ei 


2 co μὰ adh ἰὴ ἡ τῶι acre Bil “ἢ 
, as Cae: AEN Seo al 14 ag Ε 
* Stee: ἤν: ἐν bi Sei! Fels 
ee DAN ae a lie ae ae 
if ay ate by ae ἀν 
ἀπ τὶ ᾿ 


THE CORSAIR, 


A TALE. 


. at ache apt Ras oa) at ΔΑΝ 
‘¢ —————= J suoi pensieri in lui dormir non ponno.”” 
Tasso, Gerusalemme Liberata, canto x. 


4 


ἘΌΝ ; 

ἌΝ νυ 

᾿ ips ies 

‘ ὧν Or - Ἧ 

ΤᾺ ὯΝ oo 
a A 


ΙΓ ft Ν 


πον" 


ΤΟ 


THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. 


MY DEAR MOORE, 


I pEepicare to you the last production with which I shall tres- 
pass on public patience, and your indulgence, for some years ; 
and I own that I feel anxious to avail myself of this latest and 
only opportunity of adorning my pages with a name, consecrated 
by unshaken public principle, and the most undoubted and various 
talents. While Ireland ranks you among the firmest of her pa- 
triots ; while you stand alone the first of her bards in her estima- 
tion, and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, permit one, whose 
only regret, since our first acquaintance, has been the years he 
had lost before it commenced, to add the humble but sincere 
suffrage of friendship, to the voice of more than one nation. It 
will at least prove to you, that I have neither forgotten the gratifi- 


cation derived from your society, nor abandoned the prospect οἵ. 


its renewal, whenever your leisure or inclination allows you to 
atone to your friends for too long an absence. It is said among 
those friends, I trust truly, that you are engaged in the composi- 
tion of a poem whose scene will be laid in the East; none can 
do those scenes so much justice. The wrongs of your own 
country, the magnificent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty 
and feeling of her daughters, may there be found ; and Collins, 
when he denominated his Oriental his Irish Eclogues, was not 
aware how true, at least, was a part of his parallel. Your imagi 
nation will create a warmer sun and less clouded sky ; but wild- 
ness, tenderness, and originality, are part of your national claim of 
oriental descent, to which you have already thus far proved your 
title more clearly than the most zealous of your country’s anti- 
quarians. 


gc. 


3206 DEDICATION. 


May I add a few words on a subject on whichall men are sup- 
posed to be fluent, and none agreeable, — Self? Ihave written 
much, and published more than enough to demand a ionger silence 
than I now meditate ; but, for some years to come, it is my inten- 
tion to tempt no further the award of “ Gods, men, nor columns.” 
In the present composition I have attempted not the most difficult, 


but, perhaps, the best adapted measure to our language, the good 


old and now neglected heroic couplet. The stanza of Spenser 
is perhaps too slow and dignified for narrative ; though, I confess, 
it is the measure most after my own heart: Scott alone, of the 


present generaticn, has hitherto completely triumphed over the 
fatal facility of the octo-syllabie verse ; and this is not the least 


victory of his fertile and mighty genius: in black verse, Milton, 
Thomson, and our dramatists, are the beacons that shine along the 
deep, but warn us from the rough and barren rock on which they 
are kindled. The heroic couplet is not the most popular measure 
certainly ; but as I did not deviate into the other from a wish to 
flatter what is called public opinion, If shall quit it without further 
apology, and take my chance once more with that versification, 
in which I have hitherto published nothing but compositions whose 
former circulation is part of my present, and will be of my future 
regret. 

With regard to my story, and stories in general, I should have 
been glad to have rendered my personages more perfect and 


‘amiable, if possible, inasmuch as I have been sometimes criticis- 


ed, and considered no less responsible for their deeds and qualities 
than if all had been personal. Be itso—if I have deviated into 
the gloomy vanity of “drawing from self,” the pictures are pro- 
bably like, since they are unfavourable ; and if not, those who 
know me are undeceived, and those who do not, I have little in- 
terest in undeceiving. I have no. particular desire that any but 
my acquaintance should think the author better than the beings of 
his imagining ; but I cannot helpa little surprise, and perhaps amuse- 
ment, at some odd critical exceptions in the present instance, when 
I see several bards, (far more deserving, I allow,) in very reput- 
able plight, and quite exempted from all participation in the faults 
of those heroes, who, nevertheless, might be found with little more 
morality than “The Giaour,” and perhaps — but no—TI must 


DEDICATION. 321 


admit Childe Harold to be a very repulsive personage: and as to 
his identity, those who like it must give him whatever “ alias ” 
they please. 

If, however, it were worth while to remove the impression, it 
might be of some service to me, that the man who is alike the 
delight of his readers and his friends, the poet of all circles. and 
the idol of his own, permits me here and elsewhere to subscribe 
myself, 

Most truly, 
And attectionately, 
His obedient servant, 
BYRON. 
January 2, 1814 


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THE CORSAIR.() 


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CANTO THE FIRST. 


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— nessun maggior dolore 
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Nella miseria, —— 7 


DANTE. 


I. 


“Ὁ O’er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 

Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, 
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 
Survey our empire, and behold our home! 

These are our realms, no limits to their sway — 
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 

Ours the wild life in tumult still to range 

From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 

Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave! 
Whose soul would sicken o’er the heaving wave ; 
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! 
When slumber soothes not — pleasure cannot please — 
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, 
And danced in triumph o’er the waters wide, . 
The exulting sense — the pulse’s maddening play, 
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way ? 
That for itself can woo the approaching fight, 

And turn what some deem danger to delight ;, 
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal, 
And where the feebler faint — can only feel — 
Feel — to the rising bosom’s inmost core, 

lis hope awaken and its spirits soar? 


(1) The time in this poem mey seem too short for the occurrences, but the whole 
of the 7Egean isles are within a few hours’ sail of the continent, and the reader musi 
be kind enough to take the wind as | have often found it. 


ζυ 


THE CORSAIR. CANTO |, 


No dread of death — if with us die our foes — 

Save that it seems even duller than repose : 

Come when it will — we snatch the life of life — 
When lost — what recks it — by disease or strife ? 
Let him who crawls enamour’d of decay 

Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ; 

Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head ¢ 
Ours —the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul, 

Ours with one pang —— one bound — escapes control. 
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, 


And they who loath’d his life may gild his grave : 


Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, 
When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
For us, even banquets fond regret supply 

In the red cup that crowns our memory ; 

And the brief epitaph in danger’s day, 

When those who win at length divide the prey, 
And cry, Remembrance saddening o’er each brow, 
How had the brave who fell exulted now !” 


1, 


Such were the notes that from the Pirate’s isle 
Around the kindlig watch-fire rang the while : 
Such were the sounds that thrill’d the rocks along, 
And unto ears as rugged seem’d a song! 

In scatter’d groups upon the golden sand, 

They game — carouse — converse — or whet the brand ; 
Select the arms — to each his blade assign, 

And careless eye the blood that dims its shine ; 
Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar, 

While others straggling muse along the shore ; 
For the wild bird the busy springes set, 

Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net ; 

Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies, 
With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise ; 

Tell o’er the tales of many a night of toil, 

And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil: 
No matter where — their chief’s allotment this ; 
Theirs, to believe no prey nor pian amiss. 

But who that Cuizer? his name on every shore 

Is famed and fear’d — they ask and know no more. 
With these he mingles not but to command ; 

Few are his words, but keen his eye and hana. 
Ne’er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess 

But they forgive his silence for success. 


a 


ἐλ THE CORSAIR. 32 


Ne’er for his lip the purpling cup they fill, 

That goblet passes him untasted still —— 

And for his fare —— the rudest of his crew 

Would that, in turn, have pass’d untasted too ; 

Earth’s coarsest bread, the garden’s homeliest roots, 
And scarce the summer luxury of fruits, 

His short repast in humbleness supply 

With all a hermit’s board would scarce deny. 

But while he shuns the grosser Joys of sense, 

His mind seems nourish’d by that abstinence. 
* Steer to that shore !” —they sail. * Do this !’—’tis done : 
‘¢ Now form and follow me ! ” — the spoil is won. 
Thus prompt his accents and his actions still, 

And all obey and few enquire his will ; 

To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye 

Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 


Til. 


« A sail! —a sail!”? —a promised prize to Hope! 
Her nation — flag — how speaks the telescope ? 
No prize, alas !—— but yet a welcome sail : 

The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. 
Yes —she is ours — ἃ home-r eturning bark — 
Blow fair, thou breeze! — she anchors ere the dark. 
Already doubled is the cape — our bay 
Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray. 
How gloriously her gallant course she goes! 

Her white wings flying — never from her foes — 
She walks the waters like a thing of life, 
And seems to dare the slements to strife. 
Who would not brave the battle-fire — the wreck —- 
‘To move the monarch of her peopled deck ? 


Iv. 


Hoarse o’er her side the rustling cable rings ; 

‘The sails are furl’d ; and anchoring round she swings 
And gathering loiterers on the land discern 
Her boat descending from the latticed stern. 

"T is mann’d — the oars keep concert to the strand, 
‘Tull grates her keel upon the shallow sand. 

Hail to the welcome shout ! — the friendly speech ! 
When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach ; 

The smile, the question, and the quick reply, 

And the heart’s promise of festivity ! 


ade ee = 


B26 


THE CORSAIR, CANTO i, 


v. 
The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd: 
‘The hum of voices, and the laughter loud, 
And woman’s gentler anxious tone is heard — 
Friends’ — husbands’ — lovers’ names in each dear wore : 
«Oh! are they safe? we ask not of success — 
But shall we see them? will their accents bless ἢ 
From where the battle roars — the billows chafe — 
They doubtless boldly did — but who are safe? 
Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, 
And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes! ” 


Vi. 
ἐς Where is our chief? for him we bear report — 
And doubt that joy —— which hails our coming -— short ; 
Yet thus sincere —’t is cheering, though so brief; 
But, Juan! instant guide us to our chief: 
Our greeting paid, we'll feast on cur return, 
And all shall hear what each may wish to learn.” 
Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way, 
To where his watch-tower beetles o’er the bay, 
By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming, 
And freshness breathing from each silver spring, 
Whose scatter’d streams from granite basins burst, 
Leap into life, and sparkling woo yout thirst ; 
From crag to cliff they mount — Near yonder cave, 
What lonely straggter looks along the wave ? 
In pensive posture leaning on the brand, 
Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand ? 
“ °T is he -—’t is Conrad — here — as, wont — alone ; 
On — Juan ! —-— on — and make our purpose known. 
The bark he views — and tell him we wouid greet 
His ear with tidings he must quickly meet : 
We dare not yet approach — thou know’st his mood, 
When strange or uninvited steps intrude.” 


Vil. 


Him Juan sought, and told of their intent ; —— 

He spake not — but a sign express’d assent. 

These Juan calls — they come — to their salute 

He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. 

« These letters, Chief, are from the Greek — the spy, 

Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh: ὶ 

Whate’er his tidings we can well report, 

Much that” — ‘Peace, peace!’ — he cuts their prating 
short. 


CANTO Ie THE CORSAIR. 327 


Wondering they turn, abash’d, while each to each 
Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech : 
They watch his glance with many a stealing look, 
To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 
But, this as if he guess’d, with head aside, 
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, 
He read the scroll — “ My tablets, Juan, hark — 
Where is Gonsalvo ? ” 

«ς In the anchor’d bark.” 
‘There let him stay —to him this order bear — 
Back to your duty — for my course prepare : 
Myself this enterprise to-night will share.” 
“ 'To-night, Lord Conrad? ” 

«Ay! at set of sun: 

The breeze will freshen when the day is done. 
My corslet — cloak — one hour — and we are gone. 
Sling on thy bugle — see that free from rust 
My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust ; 
Be the edge sharpen’d of my boarding-brand, 
And give its guard more room to fit my hand. 
This let the Armourer with speed dispose ; 
Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes : 
Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired, 
To tell us when the hour of stay ’s expired.” 


VIII. 
They make obeisance, and retire in haste, 
Too soon to seek again the watery waste : 
Yet they repine not —so that Conrad guides, 
And who dare question aught that he decides 2 
That man of loneliness and mystery, 
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh ; 
Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, 
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue ; 
Still sways their souls with that commanding art 
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. 
What is that spell, that thus his lawless train 
Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain? 
What should it be, that thus their faith can bind ? 
The power of Thought — the magic of the Mind ! 
Link’d with success, assumed and kept with skill, 
That moulds another’s weakness to its will; 
Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown, 
Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own. 
Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the sun 
The many still must labour for the one! 


4 pe ; 


THE CORSAIR. CANTO 1. 


ὙΠ is Nature’s doom — but let the wretch who toils, 
Accuse not, hate net ham who wears the spoils. 
Oh! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, 
How light the balance of his humbler pains! 


IX. 


Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, 

Demons in act, but Gods at least in face, 

In Conrad’s form seems little to admire, 

Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire : 
Robust but not Herculean — to the sight 

No giant frame sets forth his common height ; 
Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again, 

Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men ; 
They gaze and marvel how — and still confess 
That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 
Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale 
The sable curls in wild profusion veil ; 

And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 

The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. 
Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien, 
Still seems there something he would not have seen : 
His features’ deepening lines and varying hue 

At times attracted, yet perplex’d the view, 

As if within that murkiness of mind 

Work’d feelings fearful, and yet undefined ; 

Such might it be —that none could truly tell — 
Too close enquiry his stern glance would quell. 
There breathe but few whose aspect might defy 
The full encounter of his searching eye: 

He had the skill, when Cunning’s gaze would seek 
To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, 
At once the observer’s purpose to espy, 

And on himself roll back his serutiny, 

Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 

Some secret thought, than drag that chief’s to day. 
There was a laughing Devil in his sneer, 

That raised emotions both of rage and fear ; 


¢ And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 
Hope withering fled — and Mercy sigh’d farewell! 


Xe 


Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, 
Within — within -—’twas there the spirit wrought ! 
Love shows all changes — Hate, Ambition, Guile, 
Betray no further than the bitter smile ; 


CANTO I. THE CORSAIR. 329 


The lip’s least curl, the lightest paleness thrown 
Along the govern’d aspect, speak alone 

Of deeper passions ; and to judge their mien, 

He, who would see, must be himself unseen. 

Then — with the hurried tread, the upward eye, 
The clenched hand, the pause of agony, 

That listens, starting, lest the step too near 
Approach intrusive on that mood of fear : 

Then — with each feature working from the heart, 
With feelings loosed to strengthen — not depart : 
That rise — conyulse — contend — that freeze or glow, 
Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; 

Then — Stranger! if thou canst, and tremblest not, 
Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot ! 
Mark — how that lone and blighted bosom sears 
The scathing thought of execrated years ! 

Behold — but who hath seen, or e’er shall see, 
Man as himself — the secret spirit free ? 


XI. 
Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent 
To lead the guilty — guilt’s worst instrument — 
His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven 
Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 
Warp’d by the world in Disappointment’s school, 
In words too wise, in conduct there a fool; 
Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, 
Doom’d by his very virtues for a dupe, 
He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, 
And not the traitors who betray’d him still ; 
Nor deem’d that gifts bestow’d on better men 
Had left him joy, and means to give again. 
Fear’d — shunn’d — belied — ere youth had lost her force, 
He hated man too much to feel remorse, 
And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, 
To pay the injuries of some on all. 
He knew himself a villain —— but he deem’d 
The rest no better than the thing he seem’d ; 
And scorn’d the best as hypocrites who hid 
Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 
He knew himself detested, but he knew 
The hearts that loath’d him crouch’d and dreaded too. 
Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 
From all affection and from all contempt : 
His name could sadden, and his acts surprise ; 
But they that fear’d him dared not to despise : 


Ca? 


THE CORSAIR. 


Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake 
The slumbering venom of the folded snake ; 

The first may turn — but not avenge the blow ; 
The last expires — but leaves no living foe ; 

Fast to the doom’d offender’s form it clings, 

And he may crush — not conquer — still it stings ! 


XII. 
None are all evil —- quickening round his heart, 
One softer feeling would not yet depart ; 
Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled 
By passions worthy οἵ ἃ fool or child: 
Yet ’gainst that passion vainly still he strove, 
And even in him it asks the name of Love! 
Yes, it was love — unchangeable — unchanged, 
Felt but for one from whom he never ranged ; 
Though fairest captives daily met his eye, 
He shunn’d, nor sought, but coldly pass’d them by ; 
Though many a beauty droop’d in prison’d bower, 
None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. 
Yes — it was Love — if thoughts of tenderness, 
Tried in temptation, strengthen’d by distress, 
Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime, 
And yet — Oh more than all ! —untired by time ; 
Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile, 
Could render sullen were she near to smile, 
Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 
On her one murmur of his discontent ; 
Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part, 
Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart ; 
Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove — 
If there be love in mortals — this was love ! 
He was a villain — ay — reproaches shower 
On him — but not the passion, nor its power, 
Which only proved, all other virtues gone, 
Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one ! 


XIII. 

He paused a moment — till his hastening men 
Pass’d the first winding downward to the glen. 
« Strange tidings !-— many a peril have 1 past, 
Nor know I why this next appears the last ! 
Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear, 
Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 

>T is rash to meet, but surer death to wait 

Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate ; 


CANTO 


- 
ue 


"CANTO I. THE CORSAIR. 


And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile 

We ‘il furnish mourners for our funeral pile. 
Ay — let them slumber — peaceful be their dreams! 
Morn ne’er awoke them with such brilliant beams 
As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze !) 
To warm these slow avengers of the seas. 

Now to Medora—— Oh! my sinking heart, 

Long may her own be lighter than thou art ! 

Yet was I brave — mean boast where all are brave! 
Ev’n insects sting for aught they seek to save. 
This common courage which with brutes we share, 
That owes its deadliest efforts to despair, 

Small merit claims —— but ’t was my nobler hope 
To teach my few with numbers still to cope ; 
Long have I led them — not to vainly bleed ; 

No medium now — we perish or succeed! 

So let it be —it irks not me to die; 

But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly 

My lot hath long had little of my care, 

But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare : 

“Ts this my skill? my craft? to set at last 

Hope, power, and life upon a single cast ? 

Oh, Fate !— accuse thy folly, not thy fate — 

She may redeem thee still — nor yet too late.” 


XIV. 


Thus with himself communion held he, till 

He reach’d the summit of his tower-crown’d hill : 
There at the portal paused — for wild and soft 
He heard those accents never heard too oft; 
Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung, 
And these the notes the bird of beauty sung: 


1, 


‘¢ Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, 
Lonely and lost to light for evermore, 

Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, 
Then tremble into silence as before. 


2. 
“There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 
Burns the slow flame, eternal — but unseen ; 
Which not the darkness of despair can damp, 
Though vain its ray as it had never been. 


ha 


THE CORSAIR. CANTO 1. 


3. 


“ Remember me — Oh! pass not thou my grave 
Without one thought whose relics there recline : 
The only pang my bosom dare not brave 
Must be to find forgetfulness in thine. 


4. 


“ My fondest — faintest — latest accents hear — 
Grief for the dead not Virtue ean reprove ; 
‘Then give me all I ever ask’d —a tear, 
The first — the last — sole reward of so much love ! ” 


He pass’d the portal — cross’d the corridore, 
And reach’d the chamber as the strain gave o’er : 
‘* My own Medora! sure thy song is sad —” 


“In Conrad’s absence wouldst thou have it glad ? 
Without thine ear to listen to my lay, 

Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray : 
Still must each accent to my bosom suit, 

My heart unhush’d — although my lips were mute ! 
Oh! many a night on this lone couch reclined, 

My dreaming fear with storms hath wing’d the wind, 
And deem’d the breath that faintly fann’d thy sail 
The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale ; 

Though soft, it seem’d the low prophetic dirge, 
That mourn’d thee floating on the savage surge : 
Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire, 

Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire ; 
And many a restless hour outwatch’d each star, 
And morning came — and still thou wert afar. 

Oh! how the chill blast on my bosom blew, 

And day broke dreary on my troubled view, 

And still I gazed and gazed — and not a prow 

Was granted to my tears — my truth —— my vow! 
At length —’twas noon — I hail’d and blest the mast 
That met my sight — it near’d — Alas! it past! 
Another came — Oh God! ’t was thine at last! 
Would that those days were over! wilt thou ne’er, 
My Conrad! learn the joys of peace to share ? 
Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a home 
As bright as this invites us not to roam : 

Thou know’st it is not peril that I fear, 

I only tremble when thou art not here : 


CANTO 1. THE CORSAIR. 333 


Then not for mine, but that far dearer life, 
Which flies from love and languishes for strife — 
How strange that heart, to me so tender still, 
Should war with nature and its better will!” 


“ Yea, strange indeed — that heart hath long been changed ; 
Worm-like ’t was trampled — adder-like avenged, 
Without one hope on earth beyond thy love, 

And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. 

Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn, 
My very love to thee is hate to them, 

So closely mingling here, that disentwined, 

I cease to love thee when L love mankind : 

Yet dread not this —the proof of all the past 
Assures the future that my love will last ; 

But — Oh, Medora! nerve thy gentler heart, 
This hour again — but not for long —- we part.” 


«‘ This hour we part! — my heart foreboded this : 

Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 

This hour —— it cannot be — this hour away ! 

Yon bark hath hardly anchor’d in the bay ; 

Her consort still is absent, and her crew 

Hlave need of rest before they toil anew: 

My love! thou mock’st my weakness ; and wouldst stecl 
My breast before the time when it must feel ; 

dut trifle now no more with my distress, 

Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness. 

Be silent, Conrad! —— dearest! come and share 

The feast these hands delighted to prepare ; 

Light toil! to cull and dress thy frugal fare ! 

See, I have pluck’d the fruit that promised best, 

And where not sure, perplex’d, but pleased, L guess’d 

At such as seem’d the fairest: thrice the hill 
My steps have wound to try the coolest rill ; 
Yes! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, 
See how it sparkles in its vase of snow! 

The grapes’ gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; 
‘hou more than Moslem when the cup appears 
Think not I mean to chide — for I rejoice 
What others deem a penance is thy choice. 
But come, the board is spread ; our silver lamp 
Is trimm/’d, and heeds not the sirocco’s damp : 
‘hen shall my handmaids while the time along, 


And join with me the dance, or wake the song ; 


δὲ 


THE CORSAIR. CANTO I. 


Or my guitar, which still thou lov’st to hear, 

Shall soothe or lull — or, should it vex thine ear, 
We'll turn the tale, by Ariosto told, 

Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. (’) 

Why — thou wert worse than he who broke his vow 
To that lost damsel, shouldst thou Jeave me now ; 
Or even that traitor chief — I ’ve seen thee smile, 
When the clear sky show’d Ariadne’s Isle, 

Which I have pointed from these cliffs the while : 
And thus half sportive, half in fear, I said, 

Lest Time should raise that doubt to more than dread, 
Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main: 

And he deceived me — for — he came again!” 


« Again — again — and oft again — my love! 

If there be life below, and hope above, 

He will return — but now, the moments bring 
The time of parting with redoubled wing: 

The why — the where — what boois it now to tell 7 
Since all must end in that wild word — farewell! 
Yet would I fain — did time allow — disclose — 
Fear not — these are no formidable foes ; 

And here shall watch ἃ more than wonted guard, » 
For sudden siege and long defence prepared : 
Nor be thou lonely — though thy lord ’s away, 
Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay ; 
And this thy comfort — that, when next we meet. 
Security shall make repose more sweet. 

List !—’t is the bugle — Juan shrilly blew — 
One kiss — one more — another — Oh! Adieu!” 


She rose — she sprung — she clung to his embrace 
Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. 
He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye, 
Which downcast droop’d in tearless agony. 
Her long fair hair lay floating o’er his arms, 

In all the wildness of dishevell’d charms ; 
Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt 
So full — that feeling seem’d almost unfelt ! 
Hark — peals the thunder of the signal-gun! 
It told ’t was sunset — and he cursed that sun. 
Again — again — that form he madly press’d, 
Which mutely clasp’d, imploringly caress’d ! 


(1) Orlando Furioso, Canto x. 


CANTO 1. THE CORSAIR. 335° 


And tottering to the couch his bride he bore, 

One moment gazed —as if to gaze no more ; 

Felt —— that for him earth held but her alone, 

Kiss’d her cold forehead — turn’d —is Conrad gone ? 


XV. 


« And is he gone 7 — on sudden solitude 

How oft that fearful question will intrude ! 

“ς᾽ was but an instant past — and here he stood ! 
And now ” — without the portal’s porch she rush’d, 
And then at length her tears in freedom gush’d ; 

Big — bright —— and fast, unknown to her they fell ; 
But still her lips refused to send—— * Farewell! ” 

For in that word — that fatal word — howe’er 

We promise — hope — believe —- there breathes despair. 
O’er every feature of that still, pale face, 

Had sorrow fix’d what time can ne’er erase: 

The tender blue of that large loving eye 

Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy, 

Till — Oh, how far! ——it caught a glimpse of him, 
And then it flow’d — and phrensied seem’d to swim 
Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes dew’d 
With drops of sadness oft to be renew’d. 

« He ’s gone! ” — against her heart that hand is driven, 
Convulsed and quick —-then gently raised to heaven ; 
She look’d and saw the heaving of the main ; 

The white sail set — she dared not look again ; 

But turn’d with sickening soul within the gate — 

ἐς ΤῸ is no dream — and I am desolate!” 


XVI. 


From crag to crag descending ---- swiftly sped 
Stern Conrad down, nor once he turn’d his head ; 
But shrunk whene’er the windings of his way 
Forced on his eye what he would not survey, 

Fiis lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep, 

That hail’d him first when homeward from the deep: 
And she ---- the dim and melancholy star, 

Whose ray of beauty reach’d him from afar, 

On her he must not gaze, he must not think, 
There he might rest — but on Destruction’s brink : 
Yet once almost he stopp’d — and nearly gave 

His fate to chance, his projects to the wave : 

But not --it must not be —a worthy chief 

May melt, but not betray to woman’s grief. 


- 336 


THE CCRSAIR. CANT 


He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind, 
And sternly gathers all his might of mind : 
Again he hurries on — and as he hears 

The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears, 

The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore, 

The shout, the signal, and the dashing car; 

As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast, 

The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast, 

The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge 
That mute adieu to those who stem the surge ; 
And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft, 

He marvell’d how his heart could seem so soft. 
Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast, 
He feels of all his former self possest ; 

He bounds — he flies — until his footsteps reach 
The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach, 
There checks his speed ; but pauses less to breathe 
The breezy freshness of the deep beneath, 

Than there his wonted statelier step renew ; 
Nor rush, disturb’d by haste, to vulgar view : 
For well had Conrad learn’d to curb the crowd, 
By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud ; 
His was the lofty port, the distant mien, 

That seems to shun the sight —- and awes if seen : 
The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye, 

That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy ; 
Ail these he wielded to command assent : 

But where he wish’d to win, so well unbent, 
That kindness cancell’d fear in those who heard, 
And others’ gifts show’d mean beside his wore, 
When echo’d to the heart as from his own 

His deep yet tender melody of tone: 

But such was foreign to his wonted mood, 

He cared not what he soften’d, but subdued ; 
The evil passions of his youth had made 

Him value less who loved — than what obey’d. 


XVII. 
Around him mustering ranged his ready guard. 
Before him Juan stands — “ Are all prepared?” 


“ ‘They are — nay more — oe : the latest boat 
Waits but my chief 


“ «My sword, and my capote.” 
Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung, 
His belt and cloak were o’er his shoulders flung : 


FOL 


CANTO I. HE CORSSIR 982) 


* Call Pedro here!” He comes —— and Conrad bends, 
With all the courtesy he deign’d his friends ; 

- Receive these tabiets, and peruse with care, 
Words of high trust and truth are graven there ; 
Double the guard, and when Anselmo’s bark 
Arrives, let him alike these orders mark : 

In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shine 
On our return — till then all peace be thine ! ” 
This said, his brother Pirate’s hand he wrung, 
Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. 
Flash’d the dipt oars, and sparkling with the stroke, 
Around the waves’ phosphoric (*) brightness broke ; 
They gain the vessel — on the deck he stands, 
Shrieks the shrill whistle — ply the busy hands — 
He marks how well the ship her helm obeys, 

How gallant all her crew — and deigns to praise. 
His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — 

Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn ἢ 

Alas! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, 

And live a moment o’er the parting hour ; 

She — his Medora — did she mark the prow ? 

Ah! never loved he half so much as now! 

But much must yet be done ere dawn of day — 
Again he mans himself and turns away ; 

Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends, 

And there unfolds his plan — his means —and ends : 
Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the chart, 
And all that speaks and aids the naval art ; 

They to the midnight watch protract debate ; 

To anxious eyes what hour is ever late ? 
Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew, 

And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew ; 

Pass’d the high headlands of each clustering isle 
To gain their port —long — long ere morning smile : 
And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay 
Discovers where the Pacha’s galleys lay. 

Count they each sail — and mark how there supine 
The lights in vain o’er heedless Moslem shine. 
Secure, unnoted, Conrad’s prow pass’d by, 

And anchor’d where his ambush meant to lie : 
Screen’d from espial by the jutting cape, 

That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 


(1) By mght, particularly in a warm latitude, every stroxe of the oar, every mo- 
tion of the boat or ship, is followed by a slight flash like sheet lightning from the 
water. 


VOL. ΠΙ.--Ζ 


THE CORSAIR. CANTO x 


335 
Then rose his band to duty —not from sleep —- 


Equipp’d for deeds alike on land or deep ; 
While lean’d their leader o’er the fretting flood, 


And calmly talk’d —and yet he talk’d of blood! 


THE CORSAIR. 


CANTO THE SECOND. 


“ Conosceste 1 dubiosi desir 2 ”’ 
Danve. 


I. 


In Coron’s bay floats many a galley light, 
Through Coron’s lattices the lamps are bright, 
For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night : 

A feast for promised triumph yet to come, 

When he shall drag the fetter’>d Rovers home ; 
This hath he sworn by Alla and his sword, 

And faithful to his firman and his word, 

His summon’d prows collect along the coast, 

And great the gathering crews, and loud the boasi , 
Already shared the captives and the prize, 
Though far the distant foe they thus despise ; 

’'T is but to sail — no doubt to-morrow’s Sun 

Will see the Pirates bound — their haven won! 
Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will, 
Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill. 

Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek 
To flesh their glowing valour on the Greek ; 

How well such deed becomes the turban’d brave — 
To bare the sabre’s edge before a slave ! 

Infest his dwelling —— but forbear to slay, 

Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day, 

And do not deign to smite because they may ! 
Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow, 

To keep in practice for the coming foe. 

Revel and rout the evening hours beguile, 

And they who wish to wear a head must smile ; 
For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer, 
And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear. 


344} THE CORSAIR. CANTS ii. 


11. 


High in his hall reclines the turban’d Seyd ; 
Around — the bearded chiefs he came to lead. 
Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff — 
Forbidden draughts, ’t is said, he dared to quaff, 
Though to the rest the sober berry’s juice (*) 
The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems’ use ; 
‘The long chibouque’s (*) dissolving cloud supply, 
While dance the Almas (5) to wild minstrelsy. 
The rising morn will view the chiefs embark ; 
But waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark: 
And revellers may more securely sleep 

On silken couch than o’er the rugged deep ; 
Feast there who can — nor combat till they must, 
And less to conquest than to Korans trust ; 

And yet the numbers crowded in his host 

Might warrant more than even the Pacha’s boast. (ἢ) 


\ 


lil. 


With cautious reverence from the outer gate 
Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wait, 
Bows his bent head — his hand salutes the fioor, 
Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore : 

«<A captive Dervise, from the pirate’s nest 
Escaped, is here — himself would tell the rest.” 


(1) Coffee. (2) Pipe. (3) Daneing girls. 

(4) it has been objected that Conrad’s entermg disguised as a spy is out of nature. 
Perhaps so. I find something not unlike it in history. 

‘* Anxious to explore with his own eyes the state of the Vandals, Majorian ven- 
tured, after disguising the colour of his hair, to visit Carthage in the character of his 
own ambassador ; and Genseric was afterwards mortified by the discovery, that he 
had entertained and dismissed the Emperor of the Romans. Such an anecdote may 
be rejeeted as an improbable fiction ; but it isa fiction which would not have been 
magined unless in the life of a hero.” Gibbon, D. and F. vol. v1. p. 180. 

That Conrad is a character not altogether out of nature, [ shall attempt to 
prove by some historical coincidences which I have met withsince writting “ The 
Corsair.” 5 

«( Kecelin prisonnier,” dit Rolandini, “ἢ 5 enfermoit dans un silence menacani. il 
fixoit sur Ja terre son visage féroce, et ne donnoit point d’essor ἃ sa profonde indigna- 
tion. De toutes partes cependant les soldats et les peuples accouroient; ils vou- 
loient voir cet homme, jadis si puissant, et la joie universelle éclatoit de toutes 
partes. * * * * * * * * =< 

“ Eecelin étoit d’une petite taille; mais tout aspect de sa personne, tous ses 
mouvemens, indiquoient un soldat. —Son langage étoit amer, son déportement su- 
perbe —- et par son seul égard, il faisoit trembler les plus hardis.”” — Sismondi, tome 
lil, p. 219, 220. 

Again, ““ Gizericus (Genseric, king of the Vandals, the conqueror of both Carthage 
and Rome) statura mediocris, et equi casu claudicans, animo profundus, sermone 
rarus, luxurige contemptor, ira turbidus, habendi_ cupidus, ad solicitandas gentes pro- 
videntissimus,” ὅσο. &c. Jornandes de Rebus Geticis, c. 33. 

I beg leave to quote these gloomy realities to keep in countenance my Graour and 
Corsair. 


CANTO Il. THE CORSAIR. 34} 


He took the sign from Seyd’s assenting eye, 
And led the holy man in silence nigh. 

His arms were folded on his dark-green vest, 
His step was feeble, and his look deprest ; 

Yet worn he seem’d of hardship more than years, 
And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears. 
Vow’d to his God — his sable locks he wore, 
And these his lofty cap rose proudly o’er : 
Around his form his loose long robe was thrown, 
And wrapt a breast bestow’d on heaven alone ; 
Submissive, yet with self-possession mann’d, 

He calmly met the curious eyes that scann’d ; 
And question of his coming fain would seek. 
Before the Pacha’s will allow’d to speak. 


IV. 


ἐς Whence com’st thou, Dervise? ” 
“ From the outlaw’s den, 

A fugitive — ” 

“ Thy capture where and when? ” 
“ς From Scalanovo’s port to Scio’s isle, 
The Saick was bound; but Alla did not smile 
Upon our course —- the Moslem merchant’s gains 
The Rovers won: our limbs have worn their chains. 
I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast, 
Beyond the wandering freedom which f lost ; 
At length a fisher’s humble boat by night 
Afforded hope, and offer’d chance of flight ; 
I seized the hour, and find my safety here— 
With thee — most mighty Pacha! who can fear? ” 


“« How speed the outlaws? stand they well prepared, 
Their plunder’d wealth, and robber’s rock, to guard ? 
Dream they of this our preparation, doom’d 

To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed ? ” 


‘* Pacha! the fetter’d captive’s mourning eye, 

That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy ; 

i only heard the reckless waters roar, 

Those waves that would not bear me from the shore ; 
fT only mark’d the glorious sun and sky, 

Too bright — too blue — for my captivity ; 

And felt —- that all which Freedom’s bosom cheers, 
Must break my chain before it dried my tears. 

This may’st thou judge, at least, from my escape, 
They little deem of aught in peril’s shape ; 


342 


THE CORSAIR. CANTO ΕΙΣ 


Else vainly had I pray’d or sought the chance 
That leads me here — if eyed with vigilance : 
The careless guard that did not see me fly, 

May watch as idly when thy power is nigh : 
Pacha ! — my limbs are faint — and nature craves 
Food for my hunger, rest from tossing waves : 
Permit my absence — peace be with thee! Peace 
With all around ! — now grant repose — release.” 
“ Stay, Dervise! I have more to question — stay, 
i do command thee — sit — dost hear ? — obey ! 
More I must ask, and food the slaves shall bring ; 
Thou shalt not pine where all are banqueting : 
The supper done — prepare thee to reply, 

Clearly and full — I love not mystery.” 


°T were vain to guess what shook the pious man, 
Who look’d not lovingly on that Divan ; 

Nor show’d high relish for the banquet prest, 
And less respect for every fellow guest. 

’T was but a moment’s peevish hectic past 

Along his cheek, and tranquillised as fast : 

He sate him down in silence, and his Jook 
Resumed the calmness which before forsook : 
The feast was usher’d in — but sumptuous fare 
He shunn’d as if some poison mingled there. 

For one so long condemn’d to toil and fast, 
Methinks he strangely spares the rich repast. 

« What ails thee, Dervise? eat — dost thou suppose 
This .east a Christian’s ? or my friends thy foes ? 
Why dost thou shun the salt? that sacred pledge, 
Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre’s edge, 
Makes even contending tribes in peace unite, 
And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight! ” 


“ Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still 

The humblest root, my drink the simplest rill ; 

And my stern vow and order’s (*) laws oppose 

To break or mingle bread with friends or foes : 

It may seem strange — if there be aught to dread, 
That peril rests upon my single head ; 

But for thy sway — nay more — thy Sultan’s throne, 
i taste nor bread nor banquet — save alone ; 
infringed our order’s rule, the Prophet’s rage 

To Mecca’s dome might bar my pilgrimage.” 


(1) The dervises are in colleges, and of different orders. as the monks. 


CANTO II. THE CORSAIR. 343 


“« Well— as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — 

One question answer; then in peace depart, 

How many? — Ha! it cannot sure be day ? 

What star — what sun is bursting on the bay? 

It shines a lake of fire !— away — away! 

Ho! treachery! my guards! my scimitar ! 

The galleys feed the flames — and [| afar ! 

Accursed Dervise !— these thy tidings — theu 

Some villain spy — seize — cleave him — slay him now! ” 


Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light, 

Nor less his change of form appall’d the sight : 
Up rose that Dervise — not in saintly garb, 

But like a warrior bounding on his barb, 

Dash’d his high cap, and tore his robe away — 
Shone his mail’d breast, and flash’d his sabre’s ray ! 
His close but glittering casque, and sable plume, 
More glittering eye, and black brow’s sabler gloom, 
Glared on the Moslems’ eyes some Afrit sprite, 
Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight. 
The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 

Of flames on high, and torches from below ; 

The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell — 
For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell — 
Flung o’er that spot of earth the air of hell ! 
Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 

Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves.; 
Nought heeded they the Pacha’s angry cry, 

They seize that Dervise !— seize on Zatanai !(’) 
He saw their terror — check’d the first despair 
That urged him but to stand and perish there, 
Since far too early and too well obey’d, 

The flame was kindled ere the signal made ; 

He saw their terror — from his baldric drew 

His bugle — brief the blast — but shrilly blew ; 
’T is answer’d — “ Well ye speed, my gallant crew ! 
Why did 1 doubt their quickness of career ? 

And deem design had left me single here ? ” 
Sweeps his long arm — that sabre’s whirling sway 
Sheds fast atonement for its first delay ; 
Completes his fury, what their fear begun, 

And makes the many basely quail to one. 

The cloven turbans o’er the chamber spread, 

And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head : 


(1) Satan. 


841 


THE CORSAIR. CANTO If. 


Even Seyd, convulsed, o’erwhelm’d, with rage, surprise, 
Retreats before him, though he still defies. 

No craven he — and yet he dreads the blow, 

So much Confusion magnifies his foe ! 

His blazing galleys still distract his sight, 

He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight; (*) 

For now the pirates pass’d the Haram gate, 

And burst within — and it were death to wait; 

Where wild Amazement shrieking — kneeling — throws 
The sword aside —— in vain —the blood o’erfiows ! 

The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within, 

Invited Conrad’s bugle, and: the din 

Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, 

Proclaim’d how well he did the work of strife. 

They shout to find him grim and lonely there, 

A glutted tiger mangling in his lair! 

But short their greeting — shorter his reply — 

“Tis well but Seyd escapes ---- and he must die — 
Much hath been done — but more remains to do —- 
Their galleys blaze — why not their city too? ” 


Vv. 


Quick at the word — they seized him each a torch, 
And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 

A stern delight was fix’d in Conrad’s eye, 

But sudden sunk — for on his ear the cry 

Of women struck, and like a deadly knell 

Knock’d at that heart unmoved by battle’s yell. 

‘** Oh! burst the Haram — wrong not on your lives 
One female form — remember — we have wives. 
On them such outrage Vengeance will repay ; 

Man is our foe, and such ’tis ours to slay: 

But still we spared — mut spare the weaker prey. 
Oh! I forgot — but Heaven will not forgive 

If at my word the helpless cease to live : 

Foliow who will — I go — we yet have time 

Our souls to lighten of at least a crime.” 

He climbs the crackling stair — he bursts the door, 
Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor ; 
His breath choked gasping with the volumed smoke, 
But still from room to room his way he broke. 


(1) Accommon and not very novel effect of Mussulman anger. See Prince 
Kugene’s Memoirs, page 24. “ The Seraskier received a wound in the thigh ; he 
plucked up his beard by the roots, because he was obliged to quit the field.” 


CANTO II. THE CORSAIR. 345 


They search — they find — they save: with lusty arms 
Kach bears a prize of unregarded charms ; 

Calm their loud fears ; sustain their sinking frames 
With all the care defenceless beauty claims : 

So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood, 

And check the very hands with gore imbrued. 

But who is she 1 whom Conrad’s arms convey 

From reeking pile and combat’s wreck — away — 
Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed ? 

The Haram queen — but still the slave of Seyd! 


᾿ Vi. 


Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare, (’) 
Few words to re-assure the trembling [ἈΠ ; 

For in that pause compassion snatch’d from war, 
The foe before retiring, fast and far, 

With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued, 

First slowlier fled — then rallied — then withstood. 
This Seyd perceives, then first perceives how few, 
Compared with his, the Corsair’s roving crew, 

And blushes o’er his error, as he eyes 

The ruin wrought by panic and surprise. 

Alla il Alla! Vengeance swells the ery — 

Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die ! 

And flame for flame and blood for blood must tell, 
The tide of triumph ebbs that flow’d too well — 
When wrath returns to renovated strife, 

And those who fought for conquest strike for lite. 
Cenrad beheld the danger — he beheld 

His followers faint by freshening foes repeil’d : 

‘« One effort — one — to break the circling host! ”’ 
They form —— unite — charge — waver ——all is lost! 
Within a narrower ring compress’d, beset, 
Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle yet —— 
Ah! now they fight in firmest file no more, 
Hemm/’d in — cut off — cleft down — and trampled o’er ; 
But each strikes singly, silently, and home, 

And sinks outwearied rather than οὗ ercome, 

His last faint quittance rendering with bis breath, 
Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death ! 


Vil. 


But first, ere came the rallying host to blows, 
And rank to rank, and hand to hand oppose, 


(1) Gulnare, a female name; it means, literally, the flower of the pomegranate. 


THE CORSAIR. CANTO Il. 


Gulnare and all her Haram handmaids freed, 

Safe in the dome of one who heid their creed, 

By Conrad’s mandate safely were bestow’d, 

And dried those tears for life and fame that flow’d : 
And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 
Recail’d those thoughts late wandering in despair, 
Much did she marvel o’er the courtesy 

‘That smooth’d his accents ; soften’d in his eye: 

’T was strange — that robber thus with gore bedew ὁ, 
Seem’d gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood, 

‘The Pacha woo’d as if he deem’d the slave 

Must seem delighted with the heart he gave ; 

The Corsair vow’d protection, soothed affright, 

As if his homage were a woman’s right. 

«The wish is wrong — nay, worse for female — vain : 
Yet much I long to view that chief again ; 

If but to thank for, what my fear forgot, 

The life — my loving lord remember’d not!” 


Vill. 


And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread, 
But gather’d breathing from the happier dead ; 

Far from his band, and battling with a host 

That deem right dearly won the field he lost, 
Fell’d — bleeding — baffled of the death he sought, 
And snatch’d to expiate all the ills he wrought ; 
Preserved to linger and to live in vain, 

While Vengeance ponder’d o’er new plans of pain, 
And stanch’d the blood she saves to shed again ---- 
But drop for drop, for Seyd’s unglutted eye 

Would doom him ever dying — ne’er to die! 

Can this be he? triumphant late she saw, 

When his red hand’s wild gesture waved, a law ! 
*T is he indeed —— disarm’d but undeprest, 

His sole regret the life he still possest ; 

His wounds too slight, though taken with that will, 
Which would have kiss’d the hand that then could kul. 
Oh were there none, of all the many given, 

To send his soul —— he scarcely ask’d to heaven ? 
Must he alone of all retain his breath, 

Whe more than all had striven and struck for death ? 
He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must feel, 
When thus reversed on faithless fortune’s wheel, 
For crimes committed, and the victor’s threat 

Of lingering tortures to repay the debt — 


CANTO I. THE CORSAIR. 34 


He deeply, darkly felt ; but evil pride 

That led to perpetrate — now serves to hide. 
Still in his stern and self-collected mien 

A conqueror’s more than captive’s air is seen, 
‘Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening wound, 
But few that saw -— so calmly gazed around : 
‘Though the far shouting of the distant crowd, 
Their tremors o’er, rose insolently loud, 

The better warriors who beheld him near, 
insulted not the foe who taught them fear ; 
And the grim guards that to his durance led, 
In silence eyed him with a secret dread. 


ΙΧ. 
The Leech was sent — but not in mercy — there, 
To note how much the life yet left could bear ; 
He found enough to load with heaviest chain, 
And promise feeling for the wrench of pain : 
‘To-morrow — yea — to-morrow’s evening sun 
Will sinking see impalement’s pangs begun, 
And rising with the wonted blush of morn 
Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne. 
Of torments this the longest and the worst, 
Which adds all other agony to thirst, 
That day by day death still forbears to slake, 
While famish’d vultures flit around the stake. 
“ Oh! water — water! 7) — smiling Hate denies 
The victim’s prayer -——: for if he drinks— he dies. 
This was his doom : —the Leech, the guard, were gone, 
And left proud Conrad fetter’d and alone. i 


X. 


TY’ were vain to paint to what his feelings grew — 
It even were doubtful if their victim knew. 

There is a war, a chaos of the mind, 

When all its elements convulsed — combined — 
Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, 

And gnashing with impenitent Remorse ; 

That juggling fiend — who never spake before — 
But cries “1 warn’d thee! ”’? when the deed is o'er. 
Vain voice! the spirit burning but unbeat, 

May writhe — rebel — the weak alone repent! 
Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, 

And, to itself, all —all that self reveals, 

No single passion, and no ruling thought 

That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought ; 


ry 


545 


THE CORSAiIR. 


But the wild prospect when the soul reviews — 
All rushing through their thousand avenues. 
Ambition’s dreams expiring, love’s regret, 
Endanger’d glory, life itself beset ; 

The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 

’Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate ; 
The hopeless past, the hasting future driven 

Yoo quickly on to guess if hell or heaven ; 
Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember’d not 
So keenly till that hour, but ne’er forgot; 

Things light or lovely in their acted time, 

But now to stern reflection each a crime ; 

‘The withering sense of evil unreveal’d, 

Not cankering less because the more conceal’d — 
All, in a word, from which al! eyes must start, 
‘That opening sepulchre — the naked heart 

Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake, 

To snatch the mirror from the soul -—and break. 
Ay —— Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all, 
All —— all — before — beyond — the deadliest fall. 
Each has some fear, and he who least betrays, 
The only hypocrite deserving praise : 

Not the joud recreant wretch who boasts and flies ; 
But he who looks on death — and silent dies. 

So steel’d by pondering o’er his far career, 

He half-way meets him should he menace near! 


Xt, 

In the nigh chamber of his highest tower 

Sate Conrad, fetter’d in the Pacha’s power. 

His palace perish’d in the flame — this fort 
Contain’d at once his captive and his court. 

Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame, 

His foe, if vanquish’d, had but shared the same :--- 
Alone he sate — in solitude had scann’d 

His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann’d : 

One thought alone he could not — dared not meet — 
“Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet? ” 

Then — only then —his clanking hands he raised, 
And strain’d with rage the chain on which he gazed: 
But soon he found — or feign’d — or dream’d relief, 
And smiled in self-derision of his grief, 

“ And now come torture when it will — or may, 
More need of rest to nerve me for the day!” 
This said, with languor to his mat he crept, 

And, whatsoe’er his visions, quickly slept. 


CANTO it. 


CANTO Il. THE CORSAIR. 349 


’T was hardly midnight when that fray begun, 

For Conrad’s plans matured, at once were done ; 

And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time, 

She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. 

One hour beheld him since the tide he stemm’d — 
Disguised — discover’d—conquering—ta’en——condemn’d— 
A chief on land —an outlaw on the deep — 

Destroying — saving — prison’d — and asleep ! 


XII. 


He slept in calmest seeming — for his breath 

Was hush’d so deep — Ah! happy if in death! 

He slept --Who o’er his placid slumber bends ? 
His foes are gone —— and here he hath no friends ; 
Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace ? 

No, ’tis an earthly form with heavenly face ! 

Its white arm raised a lamp — yet gently hid, 

Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid 

Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain, 

And once unclosed — but once may close again. 
That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair, 
And auburn waves of gemm/’d and braided hair ; 
With shape of fairy lightness — naked foot, 

That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute — 
Through guards and dunnest night how came it there ? 
Ah! rather ask what will not woman dare ? 

Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare ! 

She could not sleep —-and while the Pacha’s rest 
In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest, 

She left his side — his signet-ring she bore, 

Which oft in sport adorn’d her hand before — 

And with it, scarcely question’d, won her way 
Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 
Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows, 
Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose ; 

And chill and nodding at the turret door, 

They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no more: 
Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring, 

Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. 


XIIl. 


She gazed in wonder, “‘ Can he calmly sleep, 
While other eyes his fall or ravage weep? 

And mine in restlessness are wandering here — 
What sudden spell hath made this man so dear? 


350 


THE CORSAIR. CANTC Ji. 


True — ’tis to him my life, and more, I owe, 

And me and mine he spared from worse than woe : 
’T is late to think — but soft — his slumber breaks — 
How heavily he sighs ! — he starts — awakes !” 


He raised his head — and dazzled with the hght, 
His eye seem’d dubious if it saw aright: 

He moved his hand — the grating of his chain 
Too harshly toid him that he lived again. 

“ς What is that form? if not a shape of air, 
Methinks, my jailor’s face shows wond’rous fair!” 


‘Pirate! thou know’st me not — but I am one, 
Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done ; 

Look on me — and remember her, thy hand 
Snatch’d from the flames, and thy more fearful band. 
I come through darkness — and I scarce know why, 
Yet not to hurt —I would not see thee die.” 


“Tf so, kind lady! thine the only eye 

That would not here in that gay hope delight : 
Theirs is the chance — and let them use their right. 
But still 1 thank their courtesy or thine, 

That would confess me at so fair a shrine ! ” 


Strange though it seem — yet with extremest griet 
is link’d a mirth — it doth not bring relief — 
That playfulness of Sorrow ne’er beguiles, 

And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles ; 
And sometimes with the wisest and the best, 

Till even the scaffold (*) echoes with their jest! 
Yet not the joy to which it seems akin — 

It may deceive all hearts, save that within. 
Whate’er it was that flash’d on Conrad, now 

A laughing wildness half unbent his brow: 

And these his accents had a sound of mirth, 

As if the last he could enjoy on earth ; 

Yet ’gainst his nature —- for through that short life, 
Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strite. 


XIV. 
“ Corsair! thy doom is named — but I have power 
To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour. 


(1) In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, and Anne Boleyn, in the 
Tower, when grasping her neck, she remarked, that it ‘‘ was too slender to trouble 
the headsman much.” During one part of the French Revolution, it became a fa- 
shion to leave some “ mot” as a legacy; and the quantity of facetious last words spo- 
ken during that period would form a melancholy jest-book of a considerable size. 


CANTO II. THE CORSAIR. 351 


Thee wouid 1 spare — nay more — would save thee now, 
But this — time — hope — nor even thy strength allow ; 
But all I can, I will: at least deiay 

The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. 

More now were ruin — even thyself were loth 

The vain attempt should bring but doom to both.” 


“Yes ! — loth indeed : — my soul is nerved to all, 
Or fall’n too low to fear a further fall : 

Tempt not thyself with peril; me with hope 

Of flight from foes with whom 1 could not cope: 
Unfit to vanquish — shall I meanly fly, 

The one of all my band that would not die ? 

Yet there is one —to whom my memory clings, 
Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs. 
My sole resources in the path I trod 

Were these — my bark — my sword —- my love — my God ! 
The last I left in youth — he leaves me now — 
And Man but works his will to lay me low. 

I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer 
Wrung from the coward crouching of despair ; 

It is enough — I breathe — and 1 can bear. 

My sword is shaken from the worthless hand 
That might have better kept so true a brand ; 
My bark is sunk or captive — but my love — 
For her in sooth my voice would mount above : 
Oh! she is all that still to earth can bind — 

Ana this will break a heart so more than kind, 
And blight a form — till thine appear’d, Gulnare ! 
Mine eye ne’er ask’d if others were as fair.” 


* ‘Thou lov’st another then 1 ---- but what to me 

Is this —’t is nothing — nothing e’er can be : 

But yet — thou lov’st -- and — Oh! I envy those 
Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose, 

Who never feel the void — the wandering thought 
That sighs o’er visions — such as mine hath wrought.” 


“ Lady — methought thy love was his, for whom 
This arm redeem’d thee from a fiery tomb.” 


“ My love stern Seyd’s! Oh — No— No —not my love — 
Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove 

To meet his passion — but it would not be. 

[ felt — I feel —jove dwells with — with the free. 


352 THE CORSAIR. CANTO Il. 


I am a slave, a favour’d slave at best, 

To share his splendour, and seem very biest! 

Oft must my soul] the question undergo, 

Of —* Dost thou love?’ and burn to answer, ‘ No!’ 
Oh! hard it is that fondness to sustain, 

And struggle not to feel averse in vain ; 

But harder still the heart’s recoil to bear, 

And hide from one — perhaps another there. 

He takes the hand I give not — nor withhold — 

Its pulse nor check’d — nor quicken’d —— calmly cold : 
And when resign’d, it drops a lifeless weight 

From one I never loved enough to hate. 

No warmth these lips return by his imprest, 

And chill’d remembrance shudders o’er the rest. 
Yes — had I ever proved that passion’s zeal, 

The change to hatred were at least to feel : 

But still — he goes unmourn’d — returns unsought — 
And oft when present — absent from my thought. 
Or when reflection comes, and come it must —— 

I fear that henceforth ’t will but bring disgust ; 

I am his slave — but, in despite of pride, 

°T were worse than bondage to become his bride. 
Oh! that this dotage of his breast would cease ! 

Or seek another and give mine release, 

But yesterday — I could have said, to peace ! 

Yes ——if unwonted fondness now f feign, 
Remember — captive! ’tis to break thy chain ; 
Repay the life that to thy hand I owe ; 

To give thee back to all endear’d below, 

Who share such love as I can never know. 
Farewell— morn breaks — and I must now away : 
’T will cost me dear —but dread no death to-day |” 


Xv. 

She press’d his fetter’d fingers to her heart, 

And bow’d her head, and turn’d her to depart, 

And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. 

And was she here? and is he now alone ? 

What gem hath dropp’d and sparkles o’er his chain? 

The tear most sacred, shed for others’ pain, 

That starts at once — bright —- pure — trom Pity’s mine. 


Already polish’d by the hand divine ! 


Oh! too convincing — dangerously dear — 
In woman’s eye the answerable tear! 


CANTO Il. THE CORSAIR. 353 


That weapon of her weakness she can wield, 

To save, subdue — at once her spear and shield : 
Avoid it—— Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs, 

Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers! 

What lost a world, and bade a hero fly ? 

The timid tear in Cleopatra’s eye. 

Yet be the soft triumvir’s fault forgiven, 

By this —-how many lose not earth -— but heaven! 
Consign their souls to man’s eternal foe, 

And seal their own to spare some wanton’s woe ! 


XVI. 


”T is morn— and o’er his alter’d features play 
The beams —— without the hope of yesterday. 
What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing 
O’er which the raven flaps her funeral wing : 

By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt, 

While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt, 
Chill — wet — and misty round each stiffen’d limb 
Refreshing earth — reviving all but him ! — 


VOL. if!.—-A a 


THE CORSALR. 


CANTO THE THIRD. 


‘6 Come vedi—ancor non m’abbandona.” 
DANTE. 


a 
Stow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run 
Along Morea’s hills the setting sun ; 
Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright, 
But one unclouded blaze of living light! 
O’er the hush’d deep the yellow beam he throws, 
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows. 
On old AX¥gina’s rock, and Idra’s isle, 
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile, 
O’er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, 
Though there his altars are no more divine. 
Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss 
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer’d Salamis ! 
Their azure arches through the long expanse 
More deeply purpied meet his mellowing glance, 
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven ; 
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. 
On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, 
When — Athens! here thy Wisest look’d his last. 
How watch’d thy better sons his farewell ray, 
That closed their murder’d sage’s () latest day. 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hili — 
The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
But sad his light to agonizing eyes, 
And dark the mountain’s once delightful dyes: 


(1) Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset. (the hour tor execu- 
tton,) notwithstanding the entreaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went dows. 


CANTO lil. THE CORSAIR. 355 


Gloom o’er the lovely land he seem’d to pour, 
The land, where Phcebus never frown’d before, 
But ere he sank below Cithzeron’s head, 

The cup of woe was quaft’d — the spirit fled ; 
The soul of him who scorn’d to fear or fly — 
Who liv’d and died, as none can live or die! 


But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain, 

The queen of night asserts her silent reign.(*) 
No murky vapour, herald of the storm, 

Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ; 
With cornice glimmering as the moon-beams play, 
There the white column greets her grateful ray, 
And, bright around with quivering beams beset, 
Her emblem sparkles o’er the minaret : 

The groves of olive scatter’d dark and wide 
Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide, 
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,(’) 

And, dun and sombre ’mid the holy calm, 

Near Theseus’ fane yon solitary palm, 

All tinged with varied hues arrest the eye — 
And dull were his that pass’d them heedless by. 
Again the A.gean, heard no more afar, 

Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 

Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 

Mix’d with the shades of many a distant isle, 
That frown — where gentler ocean seems to smile.( ) 


II. 


Not now my theme — why turn my thoughts to thee ? 
Oh! who can look along thy native sea, 

Nor dwell upon thy name, whate’er the tale, 

So much its magic must o’er all prevail ? 

Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set, 

Fair Athens! could thine evening face forget ? 

Not he — whose heart nor time nor distance frees, 
Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades! 


(1) The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own country: the days 
in winter are longer, but in summer of shorter duration. 

(2) The Kiosk is a Turkish summer-house: the palm is without the present walls 
of Athens, not far from the temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall in- 
tervenes.—Cephisus’ stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all. 

(3) ‘The opening lines as far as section II. have, perhaps, little business here, and 
were annexed to an unpublished (though printed) poem; but they were written op 
the spot in the spring of 1811, and—I scarce know why—the reader must excuse 
their appearance here if he can. 


356 


THE CORSAIR. CANTO iIL 


Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain, 
His Corsair’s isle was once thine own domain — 
Would that with freedom it were thine again ! 


Ill. 


The Sun kath sunk — and, darker than the night, 
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height 
Medora’s heart — the third day’s come and gone — 
With it he comes not— sends not — faithless one! 
The wind was fair though light ; and storms were none. 
Last eve Anselmo’s bark return’d, and yet 

His only tidings that they had not met! 

Though wild, as now, far different were the tale 

Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 

The night-breeze freshens — she that day had pass’d 
In watching all that Hope proclaim’d a mast ; 

Sadly she sate — on high — Impatience bore 

At last her footsteps to the midnight shore, 

And there she wander’d, heedless of the spray 

That dash’d her garments oft, and warn’d away: 
She saw not — felt not this — nor dared depart, 

Nor deem’d it cold — her chill was at her heart; 
Till grew such certainty from that suspense — 

His very Sight had shock’d from life or sense ! 


It came at last —a sad and shatter’d boat, 

Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought; 
Some bleeding — all most wretched — these the few — 
Scarce knew they how escaped — this all they knew. 
In silence, darkling, each appear’d to wait 

His fellow’s mournful guess at Conrad’s fate : 
Something they would have said; but seem’d to fear 
To trust their accents to Medora’s ear. 

She saw at once, yet sunk not — trembled not — 
Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot, 

Within that meek fair form, were feelings high, 

That deem’d not till they found their energy. 

While yet was Hope — they soften’d — flutter’d — wept — 
Ali lost — that softness died not — but it slept ; 

And o’er its slumber rose that Strength which said, 

“ With nothing left to love —there ’s nought to dread.” 
*Tis more than nature’s ; like the burning might 
Delirium gathers from the fever’s height. 


“Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell 
What — speak not — breathe not — for I know it well — 


CANTO UL THE CORSAIR. 


Yet would I ask —— almost my lip denies 
The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies.” 


“© Lady! we know not — scarce with life we fled ; 


But here is one denies that he is dead: 
He saw him bound; and bleeding — but alive.” 


She heard no further — ’t was in vain to strive — 


TTY 


So throbb’d each vein — each thought — till then withstood ; 


Her own dark soul — these words at once subdued : 
She totters — falls —and senseless had the wave 
Perchance but snatch’d her from another grave ; 
But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes, 
They yield such aid as Pity’s haste supplies : 

Dash o’er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew, 
Raise — fan — sustain — till life returns anew; 
Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave 
That fainting form o’er which they gaze and grieve ; 
Then seek Anselmo’s cavern, to report 

The tale too tedious — when the triumph short. 


IV. 
In that wild council words wax’d warm and strange 
With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge ; 
All, save repose or flight : still lingering there 
Breathed Conrad’s spirit, and forbade despair ; 
Whate’er his fate — the breasts he form’d and led 
Will save him living, or appease him dead. 
Woe to his foes! there yet survive a few, 
Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true. 


V. 


Within the Haram’s secret chamber sate 

Stern Seyd, still pondering o’er his Captive’s fate ; 
His thoughts on Jove and hate alternate dwell, 
Now with Guinare, and now in Conrad’s cell ; 
Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined 


Surveys his brow — would soothe his gloom of mind : 


While many an anxious glance her large dark eye 
Sends in its idle search for sympathy, 

His only bends in seeming o’er his beads, (ἢ) 

But inly views his victim as he bleeds. 


(1) The comboloio, or Mahometan rosary; the beads are in number ninety- 


nine. 


THE CORSAIR. CANTO III. 


“¢ Pacha! the day is thine; and on thy crest 

Sits Triumph — Conrad taken — fall’n the rest! 
His doom is fix’d —he dies: and weil his fate 
Was earn’d — yet much too worthless for thy hate : 
Methinks, a short release, for ransom told 

With all his treasure, not unwisely sold ; 

Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard — 

Would that of this my Pacha were the lord ! 

While baffled, weaken’d by this fatal fray — 
Watch’d — follow’d — he were then an easier prey ; 
But once cut off-— the remnant of his band 
Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand.” 


« Gulnare ! —if for each drop of blood a gem 

Were offer’d rich as Stamboul’s diadem ; 

If for each hair of his a massy mine 

Of virgin ore should supplicating shine ; 

Tf all our Arab tales divulge or dream 

Of wealth were here — that gold should not redeem ! 
it had not now redeem’d a single hour ; 

But that I know him fetter’d, in my power ; 

And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 

On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill.” 


“« Nay, Seyd!—I seek not to restrain thy rage, 
Too justly moved for mercy to assuage ; 

My thoughts were only to secure for thee 

His riches — thus released, he were not free : 
Disabled, shorn of half his might and band, 

His capture couid but wait thy first command.” 


“ His capture could ! — and shall I then resign 
One day to him — the wretch already mine ! 
Release my foe! — at whose remonstrance ? ~— thine ! 
Fair suitor ! — to thy virtuous gratitude, 

That thus repays this Giaour’s relenting mood, 
Which thee and thine alone of all could spare, 

No doubt — regardless if the prize were fair, 

My thanks and praise alike are due — now hear! 
{ have a counsel for thy gentler ear : 

I do mistrust thee, woman! and each word 

Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard. 
Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai— 
Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly 1 
Thou need’st not answer -— thy confession speaks, 
Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks ; 


CANTO ILL THE CORSAIR. 359 


Then, lovely dame, bethink thee ! and beware : 

?”T is not his life alone may ciaim such care 

Another word and — nay —I need no more. 
Accursed was the moment when he bore 

Thee from the flames, which better far — but — no -— 
I then had mourn’d thee with a !over’s woe — 

Now ’t is thy lord that warns — deceitful thing! 
Know’st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing? 

In words alone I am not wont to chafe : 

Look to thyself — nor deem thy falsehood safe!” 


He rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, 
Rage in his eye and threats im his adieu: 

Ah! little reck’d that chief of womanhood — 

Which frowns ne’er quell’d, nor menaces subdued ; 
And little deem’d he what thy heart, Guluare ! 

When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare. 
His doubts appear’d to wrong — nor yet she knew 
How deep the root from whence compassion grew — 
She was a slave — from such may captives claim 

A fellow-feeling, differing but in name ; 

Still half unconscious — heedless of his wrath, 
Again she ventured on the dangerous path, 

Again his rage repell’d — until arose 

That strife of thought, the source of woman’s woes ! 


VI. 


Meanwhile — long anxious — weary — still — the same 
Roll’d day and night — his soul could never tame ---- 
This fearful interval of doubt and dread, 

When every hour might doom him worse than dead, 
When every step that echo’d by the gate 

Might entering lead where axe and stake await ; 
When every voice that grated on his ear 

Might be the last that he could ever hear ; 

Could terror tame — that spirit stern and high 

Had proved unwilling as unfit to die ; 

*’T was worn — perhaps decay’d — yet silent bore 
That conflict deadlier far than all before : 

The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale, 

Leave scarce one thought mert enough to quail ; 

But bound and fix’d in fetter’d solitude, 

To pine, the prey of every changing mood ; 

‘To gaze on thine own heart ; and meditate 
Irrevocable faults, and coming fate —— 


360 THE CORSAIR. CANTO IIL 


Too late the last to shun — the first to mend — 
To count the hours that struggle to thine end, . 
With not a friend to animate, and tell 

To other ears that death became thee well : 
Around thee foes to forge the ready lie, 

And blot life’s latest scene with calumny ; 
Before thee tortures, which the soul can dare, 
Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear ; 
But deeply feels a single cry would shame, 

To valour’s praise thy last and dearest claim ; 
The life thou leav’st below, denied above 

By kind monopolists of heavenly love ; 

And more than doubtful paradise — thy heaven 
Of earthly hope — thy loved one from thee riven. 
Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain, 
And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain : 

And those sustain’d he — boots it well or ill? 
Since not to sink beneath, is something still ! 


Vil. 
The first day pass’d — he saw not her — Gulnare — 
The second — third — and still she came not there ; 
But what her words avouch’d, her charms had done, 
Or else he had not seen another sun. 
The fourth day roll’d along, and with the night 
Came storm and darkness in their mingling might : 
Oh! how he listen’d to the rushing deep, 
That ne’er till now so broke upon his sleep ; 
And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent, 
Roused by the roar of his own element! 
Oft had he ridden on that winged wave, 
And loved its roughness for the speed it gave ; 
And now its dashing echo’d on his ear, 
A long known voice —alas! too vainly near! 
Loud sung the wind above ; and, doubly loud, 
Shook o’er his turret cell the thunder-cloud ; 
And flash’d the lightning by the latticed bar, 
To him more genial than the midnight star : 
Close to the glimmering grate he drage’d his chain, 
And hoped that peril might not prove in vain. 
He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray’d 
One pitying flash to mar the form it made : 
His steel and impious prayer attract alike — 
The storm roll’d onward, and disdain’d to strike ; 
Its peal wax’d fainter — ceased — he felt alone, 
As ifsome faithless friend had spurn’d his groan ! 


CANTO HI. THE CORSAIR. 361 


VIII. 


The midnight pass’d — and to the massy door 

A light step came — it paused —it moved once more ; 
Slew turns the grating bolt and sullen key : 

’T is as his heart foreboded — that fair she ! 
Whate’er her sins, to hima guardian saint, 

And beauteous still as hermit’s hope can paint ; 

Yet changed since last within that cell she came, 
More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame : 

On him she cast her dark and hurried eye, 

Which spoke before her accents ——‘** Thou must dic! 
Yes, thou must die — there is but one resource, 

The last —the worst — if torture were not worse.” 

“ Lady! I look to none — my lips proclaim 

What last proclaim’d they — Conrad still the same : 
Why should’st thou seek an outlaw’s life to spare, 
And change the sentence I deserve to bear? 

Well have I earn’d — nor here alone — the meed 

Of Seyd’s revenge, by many a lawless deed.” 


“Why should I seek? because — Oh! didst thou net 
Redeem my life from worse than slavery’s lot ? 

Why should I seek ? — hath misery made thee blind 
To the fond workings of a woman’s mind! 

And must I say? albeit my heart rebel 

With all that woman feels, but should not tell — 
Because — despite thy crimes — that heart is moved : 
It fear’d thee — thank’d thee — pitied — madden’d — loved. 
Reply not, tell not now thy tale again, 

Thou lov’st another — and I love in vain ; 

Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, 

I rush through peril which she would not dare. 

If that thy heart to hers were truly dear, 

Were I thine own — thou wert not lonely here : 

An outlaw’s spouse — and leave her lord to ream! 
What hath such gentle dame to do with home 1 

But speak not now — o’er thine and o’er my head 
Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread ; 

if thou hast courage still, and would’st be free, 
Receive this poniard — rise — and follow me!” 


“¢ Ay — in my chains! my steps will gently tread, 
With these adornments, o’er each slumbering head ! 
Thus hast forgot — is this a garb for flight ? 

Or is that instrument more fit for fight?” 


THE CORSAIR. CANTO Ill. 


“© Misdoubting Corsair! I have gain’d the guard, 

Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. 

A single word of mine removes that chain : 

Without some aid how here could I remain 7 

Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time, 

If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime : 

The crime —’t is none to punish those of Seyd. 

That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed! 

1 see thee shudder — but my soul is changed — 
Wrong’d, spurn’d, reviled — and it shall be avenged — 
Accused of what till now my heart disdain’d — 

Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain’d. 

Yes, smile ! — but he had little cause to sneer, 

I was not treacherous then — nor thou too dear : 

But he has said it — and the jealous well, 

Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel, 

Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. 

T never loved -—— he bought me ---- somewhat high —- 
Since with me came a heart he could not buy. 

I was a slave unmurmuring: he hath said, 

But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 

°T was false thou know’st -— but let such augurs rue, 
Their words are omens Insult renders true. 

Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer ; 

This fleeting grace was only to prepare 

New torments for thy life, and my despair. 

Mine too he threatens ; but his dotage still 

Would fain reserve me for his lordly will : 

When wearier of these fleeting charms and me, 

There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the sea! 
What, am I then a toy for dotard’s play, 

To wear but till the gilding frets away ? 

1 saw thee — loved thee — owe thee all — would save, 
If but to show how grateful is a slave. 

But had he not thus menaced fame and life, 

(And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife,) 

I still had saved thee —but the Pacha spared. 

Now I am all thine own —for all prepared: 
Thou lov’st me not — nor know’st — or but the worst. 
Alas! this love —that hatred are the first — 

Oh! could’st thou prove my truth, thou would’st not start, 
Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart ; 

’'T is now the beacon of thy safety -— now 

Tt points within the port a Mainote prow; 

But in one chamber, where our path must lead, 

There sleeps — he must not wake —— the oppressor Seyd !” 


CANTO III. THE CORSAIR. 


« Gulnare — Gulnare — I never felt till now 
My abject fortune, wither’d fame so low: 

Seyd is mine enemy: had swept my band 
From earth with ruthless but with open hand, 
And therefore came J, in my bark of war, 

To smite the smiter with the scimitar ; 

Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — 
Who spares a woman’s seeks not slumber’s life. 
Thine saved I gladly, Lady, not for this — 

Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 
Now fare thee well — more peace be with thy breast! 
Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest!” 


“Rest! rest! by sunrise must thy sinews shake, 
And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. 

i heard the order — saw —I will not see — 

If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. 

My life —-my love — my hatred — all below 

Are on this cast — Corsair! ’t is but a blow! 
Without it flight were idle — how evade 

His sure pursuit? my wrongs too unrepaid, 

My youth disgraced — the long, long wasted years, 
One blow shall cancel with our future fears ; 

But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 

I ’ll try the firmness of a female hand, 

The guards are gain’d —- one moment all were o’er — 
Corsair! we meet in safety or no more ; 

If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 

Will hover o’er thy scaffold, and my shroud.” 


IX. 


She turn’d, and vanish’d ere he could reply, 

But his glance follow’d far with eager eye ; 

And gathering, as he could, the links that bound 
His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound, 
Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude, 

He, fast as fetter’d limbs allow, pursued. 

’T was dark and winding, and he knew not where 
That passage led; nor lamp nor guard were there : 
He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 

Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak? 

Chance guides his steps —a freshness seems to bear 
Full on his brow, as if from morning air — 

He reach’d an open gallery — on his eye 

Gleam’d the last star of night, the clearing sky : 


384 THE CORSAIR. CANTO Hil. 


Yet scarcely heeded these — another light 

From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 

Towards it he moved ; a scarcely closing door 
Reveal’d the ray within, but nothing more. 

With hasty step a figure outward past, 

Then paused — and turn’d — and paused —’t is She at last ! 
No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — 

«Thanks to that softening heart — she could not kill!” 
Again he look’d, the wildness of her eye 

Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 

She stopp’d —— threw back her dark far-floating hair, 
That nearly veil’d her face and bosom fair : 

As if she late had bent her leaning head 

Above some object. of her doubt or dread. 

They meet — upon her brow — unknown —— forgot ---- 
Her hurrying hand had left —’t was but a spot — 

Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — 

Oh! slight but certain pledge of crime — ’t is blood! 


X. 
He had seen battle — he had brooded lone 
O’er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown ; 
He had been tempted —— chasten’d —— and the chain 
Yet on his arms might ever there remain: 
But ne’er from strife — captivity -— remorse — 
From all his feelings in their inmost force — 
So thrill’d — so shudder’d every creeping vein, 
As now they froze before that purple stain. 
That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak, 
Had banish’d all the beauty from her cheek ! 
Blood he had view’d — could view unmoved — but then 
It flow’d in combat, or was shed by men. 


XI. 
“ ?T is done — he nearly waked — but it is done. 
Corsair! he perish’d — thou art dearly won. 
All words would now be vain — away — away ! 
Our bark is tossing —’t is already day. 
The few gain’d over, now are wholly mine, 
And these thy yet surviving band shall join: 
Anen my voice shall vindicate my hand, 
When once our sail forsakes this hated strand.” 


xii. 
She clapp’d her hands — and through the gallery pour, 
Equipp’d for flight, her vassals — Greek and Moor ; 


4NTO II. THE CORSAIR. 365 


Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind ; 
Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind ! 
But on his heavy heart such sadness sate, 

As if they there transferr’d that iron weight. 
No words are utter’d — at her sign, a door 
Reveals the secret passage to the shore ; 

The city lies behind — they speed, they reach 
The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach ; 
And Conrad following, at her beck, obey’d, 
Nor cared he now if rescued or betray’d ; 
Resistance were as useless as if Seyd 

Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. 


XIII. 
Embark’d, the sail unfurl’d, the light breeze blew- - 
How much had Conrad’s memory to review! 
Sunk he in Contemplation, till the cape 
Where last he anchor’d rear’d its giant shape. 
Ah! —since that fatal night, though brief the time, 
Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. 
As its far shadow frown’d above the mast, 
He veil’d his face, and sorrow’d as he pass’d; 
He thought of all — Gonsalvo and his band, 
His fleeting triumph and his failing hand ; 
He thought on her afar, his lonely bride : 
He turn’d and saw — Gulnare, the homicide! 


XIV. 
She watch’d his features till she could not bear 
Their freezing aspect and averted air, 
And that strange fierceness foreign to her eye, 
Fell quench’d in tears, too late to shed or dry. 
She knelt beside him and his hand she press’d, 
“ Thou may’st forgive though Allah’s self detest ; 
But for that deed of darkness what wert thou ? 
Reproach me — but not yet— Oh! spare me now / 
I am not what I seem — this fearful night 
My brain bewilder’d — do not madden quite ! 
If I had never loved — though less my guilt, 
Thou hadst not lived to—hate me — if thou wilt.” 


XV. 
She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraid 
Than her, though undesign’d, the wretch he made ; 
But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest, 
They bleed within that silent cell — his breast. 


366 


THE CORSAIR. CANTO UI. 


Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge, 
The blue waves sport around the stern they urge ; 
Far on the horizon’s verge appears a speck, 

A spot —a mast —a sail— an armed deck! 
Their little bark her men of watch descry, 

And ampler canvass woos the wind from high ; 

She bears her down majestically near, 

Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier ; 

A flash is seen — the ball beyond her bow 

Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below. 

Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, 

A long, long absent gladness in his glance ; 
“Tis mine — my blood-red flag! again — again —- 
{ am not all deserted on the main!” 

They own the signal, answer to the hail, 

Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. 
“15. Conrad! Conrad!” shouting from the deck, 
Command nor duty could their transport check ! 
With light alacrity and gaze of pride, 

They view him mount once more his vessel’s side ; 
A smile relaxing in each rugged face, 

Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace. 
He, half forgetting danger and defeat, 

Returns their greeting as a chief may greet, 
Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo’s hand, 

And feels he yet can conquer and command ! 


XVI. 


These greetings o’er, the feelings that o’erflow, 
Yet grieve to win him back without a blow ; 
They sail’d prepared for vengeance — had they known 
A woman’s hand secured that deed her own, 

She were their queen — less scrupulous are they 
Than haughty Conrad how they win their way. 
With many an asking smile, and wondering stare, 
They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare ; 
And her, at once above — beneath her sex, 
Whom blood appall’d not, their regards perplex. 
To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye, 

She drops her veil, and stands im silence by ; 
Her arms are meekly folded on that breast, 
Which — Conrad safe — to fate resign’d the rest. 
Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill, 
Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill, 

The worst of crimes had left her woman still! 


SANTO Ul. THE CORSAIR. 367 


XVII. 


This Conrad mark’d, and felt — ah! could he less? — 
Hate of that deed — but grief for her distress ; 
What she has done no tears can wash away, 

And Heaven must punish on its angry day: 

But —— it was done: he knew, whate’er her guilt, 
For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt; 
And he was free ! — and she for him had given 

Her ail on earth, and more than all in heaven! 

And now he turn’d him to that dark-eyed slave 
Whose brow was bow’d beneath the glance he gave, 
Who now seem’d changed and humbled : — faint and meek, 
But varying oft the colour of her cheek 

To deeper shades of paleness —all its red 

That fearful spot which stain’d it from the dead ! 

He took that hand — it trembled — now too late — 
So soft in love —so wildly nerved in hate ; 

He clasp’d that hand — it trembled —and his own 
Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. 

“ς Gulnare ! ἢ — but she replied not — “ dear Guinare! ” 
She raised her eye — her only answer there — 

At once she sought and sunk in his embrace: 

If he had driven her from that resting-place, 

His had been more or less than mortal heart, 

But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. 
Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, 

His latest virtue then had join’d the rest. 

Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss 

That ask’d from form so fair no more than this, 
The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith — 
To lips where Love had Javish’d all his breath, 

To lips — whose broken sighs such fragrance fling, 
As he had fann’d them freshly with his wing! - 


XVIII. 
They gain by twilight’s hour their lonely isle. 
To them the very rocks appear to smile ; 
The haven hums with many a cheering sound, 
The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, 
‘he boats are darting o’er the curly bay, 
And sportive dolphins bend them through the spray; 
Even the hoarse sea-bird’s shrill, discordant shriek, 
Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak! 
Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams, 
Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beains. 


308 THE CORSAIR. CANTO 111, 


Oh! what can sanctify the joys of home, 
Lise Hope’s gay glance from Ocean’s troubled foam ? 


XIX. 


The lights are high on beacon and from bower, 
And ’midst them Conrad seeks Medora’s tower : 
He looks in vain — ’t is strange — and all remark, 
Amid so many, her’s alone is dark. 

Τ is strange — of yore its welcome never fail’d, 
Nor now, perchance, extinguish’d, only veil’d. 
With the first boat descends he for the shore, 

And jooks impatient on the lingering oar. 

Oh! for a wing beyond the falcon’s flight, 

To bear him like an arrow to that height! 

With the first pause the resting rowers gave, 

He waits not — looks not — leaps into the wave, 
Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high 
Ascends the path familiar to his eye. 


He reach’d his turret door — he paused — no sound 
Broke from within ; and all was night around. 

He knock’d, and loudly — footstep nor reply 
Announced that any heard or deem’d him nigh; 
He xnock’d — but faintly — for his trembling hand 
Refused to aid his heavy heart’s demand. 

The portal opens — ’t is a well known face — 

But not the form he panted to embrace. 

its lips are silent — twice his own essay’d, 

And fail’d to frame the question they delay’d ; 

He snatch’d the lamp — its light will answer all — 
It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 

He would not wait for that reviving ray — 

As soon could he have linger’d there for day ; 

But, glimmering through the dusky corridore, 
Another chequers o’er the shadow’d floor ; 

His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 

All that his heart believed not — yet foretold ! 


XX. 


He turn’d not — spoke not — sunk not — fix’d his icok, 
And set the anxious frame that lately shook : 

He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain, 

And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain! 

In life itself she was so still and fair, 

That death with gentler aspect wither’d there ; 


CANTO Ill. THE CORSAIR. 36S 


And the cold flowers (7) her colder hand coniain’d, 

In that last grasp as tenderly were strain’d 

As if she scarcely felt, but feign’d a sleep, 

And made it almost mockery yet to weep: 

The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow, 

And veil’d — thought shr inks from all that lurk’d below 
Oh! o’er the eye Death most exerts his might, 

And hurls the spirit from her throne of light ! 

Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, 

But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips— 

Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile 

And wish’d repese — but only for a while ; 

But the white shroud, and each extended tress, 

Long -— fair — but spread in utter lifelessness, 

Which, late the sport of every summer wina, 

Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind ; 

‘These ——and the pale pure cheek, became the ‘bier -- 
Bui she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? 


XXI. 
He ask’d no question — all were answer’d now 
By the first glance on that still — marble brow. 
It was enough — she died — what reck’d it how 7 
The love of youth, the hope of better years, 
‘The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears, 
The only living thing he couid not hate, 
Was reft at once —and he deserved his fate, 
But did not feel it less ; — the good explore, 
For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar : 
The proud — the wayward — who have fix’d below 
Their joy, and find this earth enough for woe, 
Lose in that one their all — perchance a mite — 
But who in patience parts with all delight? 
Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 
Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn ; 
And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, 
In smiles that least befit who wear them most. 


XXII. 
By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest 
The indistinctness of the suffering breast ; 
Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one, 
Which seeks from all the refuge found in none ; 


(1) In the Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on the bodies of the dead. and 
in the hands of young persons to place a nosegay. 


VOL. Hi.—B Ὁ 


370 THE CORSAIR. CANTG It 


No words suffice the secret soul to show, 

For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe. 

On Conrad’s stricken soul exhaustion prest. 

And stupor almost lull’d it into rest ; 

So feeble now —his mother’s softness crept 

To those wild eyes, which like an infant’s wept: 
It was the very weakness of his brain, 

Which thus confess’d without relieving pain. 
None saw his trickling tears — perchance, if seen, 
That useless flood of grief had never been : 

Nor long they flow’d— he dried them to depar' 
In helpless — hopeless — brokenness of heart : 
The sun goes forth — but Conrad’s day is dim: 
And the night cometh — ne’er to pass from him. 
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind, 

On Grief’s vain eye — the blindest of the blind ! 
Which may not — dare not see — but turns aside 
To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide! 


XXIII. 


His heart was form’d for softness — warp’d to wrong ; 
Betray’d too early, and beguiled too long ; 

Each feeling pure —as falls the dropping dew 

Within the grot; like that had harden’d too ; 

Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass’d, 

But sunk, and chill’d, and petrified at last. 

Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock, 

If such his heart, so shatter’d it the shock. 

There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, 
Though dark the shade — it shelter’d — saved till now. 
The thunder came -— that bolt hath blasted both, 

The Granite’s firmness, and the Lily’s growth : 

The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell 

Its tale, but shrunk and wither’d where it feil; 

And of its cold protector, blacken round 

But shiver’d fragments on the barren ground ! 


XXIV. 


°T is morn — to venture on his lonely hour 

Few dare ; though now Anselmo sought his tower. 
He was not there — nor seen along the shore ; 
Ere night, alarm’d, their isle is traversed o’er : 
Another morn — another bids them seek, 

And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ; 


SANTO HI THE CORSAIR. 371 


Mount — grotto — cavern — valley search’d in vain, 
‘They find on shore a sea-boat’s broken chain: 

Their hope revives — they follow o’er the main. 

’T is idle all — moons rojl on moons away, 

And Conrad comes not — came not since that day : 

Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 

Where lives his grief, or perish’d his despair ! 

Long mourn’d his band whom none could mourn beside ; 


And fair the monument they gave his bride : 

For him they raise not the recording stone — 

His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known ; 
He left a Corsair’s name to other times, 

Link’d with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. ('*) 


(1) That the point of honour which is represented in one instance of Conrad’s 
character has not been carried beyond the bounds of probability, may perhaps be in 
some degree confirmed by the following anecdote of a brother buccaneer in the year 
1814, 

“Our readers have all seen the account of the enterprise against the pirates of Barra- 
taria; but few, we believe, were informed of the situation, history, or nature of that 
establishment. For the information of such as were unacquainted with it, we have 
procured from a friend the following interesting narrative of the main facts, of which 
he has personal knowledge, and which cannot fail to interest some of our readers. 

‘* Barrataria is a bay, or a narrow arm of the Gulf of Mexico ; it runs through a rich 
but very flat country, until it reaches within a mile of the Mississippi river, fifteen 
miles below the city of New Orleans. The bay has branches almost innumerable, 
in which persons can lie concealed from the severest scrutiny. It communicates with 
three lakes which lie on the south-west side, and these, with the lake of the same 
name, and which lies contiguous to the sea, where there is an island formed by the 
two arms of this lake and the sea. ‘The east and west points of this island were for- 
tified, in the year 1811, by a band of pirates under the command of one Monsieur 
La Fitte. A large majority of these outlaws are of that class of the population of 
the state of Louisiana who fled from the island of St. Domingo during the troubles 
there, and took refuge in the island of Cuba ; and when the last war between France 
and Spain commenced, they were compelled to leave that island with the short no- 
tice of a few days. Without ceremony, they entered the United States, the most of 
them the state of Louisiana, with all the negroes they had possessed in Cuba. They 
were notified by the Governor of that State of the clause in the constitution which 
forbad the importation of slaves; but, at the same time, received the assurance of the 
(xovernor that he would obtain, if possible, the approbation of the General Govern- 
ment for their retaining this property. 

* The island of Barrataria is situated about lat. 29 deg. 15 min., long. 92. 30. ; and is 
as remarkable for its health as for the superior scale and shell fish with which its 
waters abound. The chief of this horue, like Charles de Moor, bad mixed with his 
many vices some virtues. In the year 1813, this party had, from its turpitude and 
boldness, claimed the attention of the Governor of Louisiana; and to break up the 
establishment he thought proper to strike at the head. He therefore offered a re- 
ward of 500 dollars for the head of Monsieur La Fitte, who was well known to the 
inhabitants of the city of New Orleans, from his immediate connection, and his once 
having been a fencing-master in that city of great reputation, which art he learnt in 
Buonaparte’s army, where he was a captain. The reward which was offered by the 
Governor for the head of La Fitte was answered by the offer of a reward from the 
latter of 15,000 for the head of the Governor. The Governor ordered out a company 
to march from the city to La Fitte’s island, and to burn and destroy all the property, 
and to bring to the city of New Orleans all his banditti, This company, under the 
command of a man who had been the intimate associate of this bold Captain, ap- 
proached very near to the fortified island, before he saw a man, or heard a sound, 
until he heard a whistle, not unlike a boatswain’s call. Then it was he found him- 
self surrounded by armed men who had emerged from the secret avenues which led 


372 THE CORSAIR. SANTO Iii. 


into Bayou. Here it was that the modern Charles de Moor developed his few noble 
traits ; for to this man, who had come to destroy his life and all that was dear to him, 
he not only spared his life, but offered him that which would have made the honest 
soldier easy for the remainder of his days ; which was indignantly refused. He then, 
with the approbation of his captor, returned to the city. This circumstance, and 
some concomitant events, proved that this band of pirates was not to be taken by 
land) Our naval force having always been small in that quarter, exertions for the 
destruction of this illicit establishment could not be expected from them until aug- 
mented ; for an officer of the navy, with most of the gun-boats on that station, had to 
retreat from an overwhelming force of La Fitte’s. So soon as the augmentation of 
the navy authorised an attack, one was made ; the overthrow of this banditti has been 
the result ; and now this almost invulnerable point and key to New Orleans is clear 
of an enemy, it is to be hoped the government will hold it by a strong military 
force.” — From an American Newspaper. Ι͂ ς 


In Noble’s continuation of Granger’s Biographical History there is a singular pas- 
sage in his account of Archbishop Blackbourne ; and as in some measure connected 
with the profession of the hero of the foregoing poem, | cannot resist the temptation 
of extracting it. 

“ There is something mysterious in the history and character of Dr. Blackbourne. 
The former is but imperfectly known; and report has even asserted he was a buc- 
caneer : and that one of his brethren in that profession having asked, on his arrival 
in England, what had become of his old chum, Blackbourne, was answered, he 1s 
Archbishop of York. We are informed, that Blackbourne was installed sub-dean of 
Exeter in 1694, which office he resigned in 1702; but after his successor Lewis Bar- 
net’s death, in 1704, he regained it. In the following year he became dean; and in 
1714 held with it the archdeanery of Cornwall. He was consecrated bishop of Exe- 
ter, February 24, 1716; and translated to York, November 28, 1724, as a reward, 
according to court scandal, for uniting George I. to the Duchess of Munster. This, 
however, appears to have been an unfounded calumny. As archbishop he behaved 
with great prudence, and was equally respectable as the guardian of the revenues of 
the see. Rumour whispered he retained the vices of his youth, and that a passion 
for the fair sex formed an item in the list of his weaknesses ; but so far from being con- 
victed by seventy witnesses, he does not appear to have been directly criminated by 
one. In short, I look upon these aspersions as the effects of mere malice. How is 
it possible a buccancer should have been so good a scholar as Blackbourne certainly 
was? He who had so perfect a knowledge of the classics, (particularly of the Greek 
tragedians,) as to be able to read them with the same ease as he could Shakspeare, 
must have taken great pains to acquire the learned languages; and have had both 
leisure and good masters. But he was undoubtedly educated at Christ-church Col- 
lege, Oxford. He is allowed to have been a pleasant man ; this, however, was turned 
against him, by its being said, ‘ he gained more hearts than souls.’ "ἢ 


“ The only voice that could soothe the passions of the savage (Alphonso ITI.) was 
that of an amiable and virtuous wife, the sole object of his love ; the voice of Donna 
Isabella, the daughter of the Duke of Savoy, and the grand-daughter of Philip iT. 
King of Spam.— Her dying words sunk deep into his memory ; his fierce spirit 
melted into tears ; and after the last embrace, Alphonso retired into his chamber to 
bewail his irreparable loss, and to meditate on the vanity of human life.” — Miscei- 
taneous Works of Gibbon, New Edition, 8vo. vol. 111. page 473. 


A TALE. 


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CANTO THE FIRST. 


I. 


Tue Serfs are glad through Lara’s wide domain. 
And Slavery half forgets her feudal chain ; 

He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord, 

The long self-exiled chieftain, is restored : 

There be bright faces in the busy hall, 

Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall; 

Far checkering o’er the pictured window, plays 
The unwonted fagots’ hospitable blaze ; 

And gay retainers gather round the hearth, 

With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth. 


II. 


The chief of Lara is return’d again : 

And why had Lara cross’d the bounding main ? 
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
Lord of himself ; —— that heritage of woe, 

That fearful empire which the human breast 

But holds to rob the heart within of rest ! —- 
With none to check, and few to point in time 
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime : 
Then, when he most required commandment, then 
Had Lara’s daring boyhood govern’d men. 

It skills not, boots not step by step to trace 

His youth through all the mazes of its race ; 
Short was the course his restlessness had run, 
But long enough to leave him half undone. 


Ill. 


And Lara left in youth his father-Jand ; 
But from the hour he waved his parting hand 


3576 LARA. CANTO} 


Each trace wax’d fainter of his course, till all 
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall. 

His sire was dust, his vassals could declare, 

?T was all they knew, that Lara was not there ; 
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew 
Cold in the many, anxious in the few. 

His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name, 
His portrait darkens in its fading frame, 
Another chief consoled his destined bride, 

The young forgot him, and the old had died ; 

“ Yet doth he live !”? exclaims the impatient heir, 
And sighs for sables which he must not wear. 
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace, 
The Lara’s last and longest dwelling-place ; 
But one is absent from the mouldering file, 
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. 


Iv. 
He comes at last in sudden loneliness, 
And whence they know not, why they need not guess ; 
They more might marvel, when the greeting’s o’er, 
Not that he came, but came not long before : 
No train is his beyond a single page, 
Of foreign aspect, and of tender age. 
Years had roll’d on, and fast they speed away 
‘To those that wander as to those that stay ; 
But lack of tidings from another clime 
Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time. 
They see, they recognise, yet almost deem 
The present dubious, or the past a dream. 


He lives, nor yet. is past his mauhood’s prime, 
Though sear’d by toil, and something touch’d by time ; 
His faults, whate’er they were, if scarce forgot, 

Might be untaught him by his varied lot ; 

Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name 

Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame : 

His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins 

No more than pleasure from the stripling wins ; 

And such, if not yet harden’d in their course, 

Might be redeem’d, nor ask a long remorse. 


: νυ. 
And they indeed were changed —’tis quickly seen, 
Whate’er he be, ’twas not what he had been: 


. 
ν 
“1 


CANTO I. LARA. 7 


That brow in farrow’d lines had fix’d at last, 

And spake of passions, θα. οἵ passion past : 

The pride, but not the fire, of early days, 
Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise ; 

A high demeanour, and_a_ glance that took 

Their thoughts from others by a single look ; 

And that sarcastic levity of tongue, 

The stinging of a heart the world hath stung, 

That darts in seeming playfulness around, 

And makes those feel that will not own the wound ; 
All these seem’d his, and something more beneath 
Than glance could well reveal, or accent breathe. 
Ambition, glory, love, the common aim, 

That some can conquer, and that all would claim, 
Within his breast appear’d no more to strive, 

Yet seem’d as lately they had been alive ; 

And some deep feeling it were vain to trace 

At moments lighten’d o’er his livid face. 


Vi. 


Not much he loved long question of the past, 

Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast, 

In those far lands where he had wander’d lone, 
And —as himself would have it seem — unknown: 
Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan, 

Nor glean experience from his fellow man ; 

But what he had beheld he shunn’d to show, 

As hardly worth a stranger’s care to know ; 

If still more prying such enquiry grew, 

His brow fell darker, and his words more few. 


Vil. 


Not unrejoiced to see him once again, 

Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men; 
Born of high lineage, link’d in high command, 
He mingled with the Magnates of his land ; 
Join’d the carousals of the great and gay, 
And saw them smile or sigh their hours away ; 
But still he only saw, and did not share 

The common pleasure or the general care ; 
He did not follow what they all pursued 

With hope still baffled still to be renew’d; 
Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain, 
Nor beauty’s preference, and the rival’s pain : 


378 LARA. CANTO fo 


Around him some mysterious circle thrown 
Repell’d approach, and show’d him still alone ; 
Upon his eye sat something of reproof, 

That kept at least frivolity alocf; 

And things more timid that beheld him near, 
In silence gazed, or whisper’d mutual fear ; 
And they the wiser, friendlier few confess’d 
They deem’d him better than his air express’d. 


VII. 
’T was strange — in youth all action and all life, 
Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife ; 
Woman — the field — the ocean — all that gave 
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave, 

In turn he tried — he ransack’d all below, 

And found his recompense in joy or woe, 

No tame, trite medium ; for his feelings sought 
In that intenseness an escape from thought : 

The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed 

On that the feebler elements hath raised ; 

The rapture of his heart had look’d on high, 

And ask’d if greater dwelt beyond the sky : 
Chain’d to excess, the slave of each extreme, 
How woke he from the wildness of that dream ? 
Alas! he told not — but he did awake 

To curse the wither’d heart that would not break. 


TK. 
Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, 
With eye more curious he appear’d to scan, 
And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day, 
From all communion he would start away : 
And then, his rarely call’d attendants said, 
Through night’s long hours would sound his hurried tread 
O’er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown’d 
In rude but antique portraiture around : 
They heard, but whisper’d — “ that must not be known — 
The sound of words less earthly than his own. 
Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had seen 
They scarce knew what, but more than should have been. 
Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head 
Which hands profane had gather’d from the dead, 
That still beside his open’d volume lay, 
As if to startle all save him away ? 
Why slept he not when others were at rest ? 
Why heard no music, and received no guest? 


CANTO I. LARA. 379 


All was not well, they deem’d — but where the wrong ? 
Some knew perchance — but ’t were a tale too long ; 
And such besides were too discreetly wise, 

To more than hint their knowledge in surmise ; 

But if they would — they could ” — around the board, 
Thus Lara’s vassals prattled of their lord. 


X. 

It was the night — and Lara’s glassy stream 
The stars are studding, each with imaged beam ; 
So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray. 

And yet they glide like happiness away ; 
Reflecting far and fairy-like from high 

The immortal lights that live along the sky : 

Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree, 
And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee ; 
Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove, 

And Innocence would offer to her love, 

These deck the shore ; the waves their channel make 
In windings bright and mazy like the snake. 

All was so still, so soft in earth and air, 

You scarce would start to meet a spirit there ; 
Secure that nought of evil could delight 

To walk in such a scene, on such a night ! 

It was a moment only for the good : 

So Lara deem’d, nor longer there he stood, 

But turn’d in silence to his castle-gate ; 

Such scene his soul no more could contemplate : 
Such scene reminded him of other days, 

Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze, 
Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now — 
No — no —the storm may beat upon his brow, 
Unfelt — unsparing — but a night like this, 

A night of beauty, mock’d such breast as his. 


XI. 

He turn’d within his solitary hall, 

And his high shadow shot along the wall : 

There were the painted forms of other times, 

°T was all they Jeft of virtues or of crimes, 

Save vague tradition; and the gloomy vaults 
That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults ; 
And half a column of the pompous page, 

That speeds the specious tale from age to age, 
Where history’s pen its praise or blame supplies, 
And lies like truth, and still most truly lies. 


380 LARA. CANTO L. 


He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone 
Through the dim lattice o’er the floor of stone, 
And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there 
O’er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer, 
Reflected in fantastic figures grew, 

Like life, but not like mortal life, to view ; 

His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom, 

And the wide waving of his shaken plume, 
Glanced like a spectre’s attributes, and gave 

His aspect all that terror gives the grave. 


XII. 


°T was midnight — all was slumber ; the lone light 
Dimm/’d in the lamp, as loth to break the night. 
Hark! there be murmurs heard in Lara’s hall — 
A sound —a. voice —a shriek —a fearful call! 

A long, loud shriek — and silence — did they hear 
That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear ? 

They heard and rose, and tremulously brave, 

Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save ; 
They come with half-lit tapers in their hands, 

And snatch’d in startled haste unbelted brands. 


XIIl. 


Cold as the marble where his length was laid, 
Pale as the beam that o’er his features play’d, 
Was Lara stretch’d; his half drawn sabre near, 
Dropp’d it should seem in more than nature’s fear ; 
Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now, 
And still defiance knit his gather’d brow ; 
Though mix’d with terror, senseless as he lay, 
There lived upon his lip the wish to slay ; 
Some half form’d threat in utterance there had died, 
Some imprecation of despairing pride ; 
His eye was almost seal’d, but not forsook 
Even in its trance the gladiator’s look, 
That oft awake his aspect could disclose, 
And now was fixed in horrible repose. 
They raise him—bear him;—hush! he breathes, he 
speaks, 

- The swarthy blush recolours in his cheeks, 
His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim, 
Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb 
Recalls its function, but his words are strung 
Tn terms that seem not of his native tongue ; 


ΦΑΝΤΟ 1. LARA. 38] 


Distinct but strange, enough they understana 
To deem them accents of another land ; 

And such they were, and meant to meet an ear 
That hears him not — alas! that cannot hear! 


XIV. 
His page approach’d, and he alone appear’d 
To know the import of the words they heard ; 
And, by the changes of his cheek and brow, 
‘They were not such as Lara should avow, 
Nor he interpret, — yet with less surprise 
Than those around their chieftain’s state he eyes, 
But Lara’s prostrate form he bent beside, 
And in that tongue which seem’d his own replied, 
And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem 
To soothe away the horrors of his dream — 
If dream it were, that thus could overthrow 
A breast that needed not ideal woe. 


XV. 

Whate’er his frenzy dream’d or eye beheld, 

If yet remember’d ne’er to be reveal’d, 

Rests at his heart: the custom’d morning came, 
And breathed new vigour in his shaken frame ; 
And solace sought he none from priest nor leech 
And soon the same in movement and in speech 
As heretofore he fill’d the passing hours, — 

Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lowers, 
Than these were wont; and if the coming night 
Appear’d less welcome now to Lara’s sight, 

He to his marvelling vassals show’d it not, 
Whose shuddering proved their fear was less forgot. 
In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl 
‘The astonish’d slaves, and shun the fated hall; 
The waving banner, and the clapping door, 

The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor ; 
The long dim shadows of surrounding trees, 
The flapping bat, the night song of the breeze ; 
Aught they behold or hear their thought appals, 
As evening saddens o’er the dark gray walls. 


XVI. 

Vain thought! that hour of ne’er unravell’d gloom 
Came not again, or Lara could assume 

A seeming of forgetfulness, that made 

His vassals more amazed nor less afraid — 


νῷ 


LARA. CANTCL 


Had memory vanish’d then with sense restored ? 
Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord 
Betray’d a feeling that recall’d to these 

That fever’d moment of his mind’s disease. 

Was it a dream? was his the voice that spoke 
Those strange wild accents ; his the cry that broke 
Their slumber? his the oppress’d, o’erlabour’d heart 
That ceased to beat, the look that made them start ? 
Could he who thus had suffer’d so forget, 

When such as saw that suffering shudder yet ? 

Or did that silence prove his memory fix’d 

Too deep for words, indelible, unmix’d 

in that corroding secrecy which gnaws 

‘The heart to show the effect, but not the cause ? 
Not so in him; his breast had buried both, 

Nor common gazers could discern the growth 

Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told ; 
Thev choke the feeble words that would unfold. 


XVII. 


In him inexplicably mix’d appear’d 

Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear’d : 

Opinion varying o’er his hidden lot, 

In praise or railing ne’er his name forgot : 

His silence form’d a theme for others’ prate — 

They guess’d— they gazed —they fain would know his 
fate. 

What had he been? what was he, thus unknown, 

Who wall’d their world, his lineage only known? 

A hater of his kind? yet some would say, 

With them he could seem gay amidst the gay ; 

But own’d that smile, if oft observed and near, 

Waned in its mirth, and wither’d to a sneer ; 

That smile might reach his lip, but pass’d not by, 

None e’er could trace its laughter to his eye: 

Yet there was softness too in his regard, 

At times, a heart as not by nature hard, 

But once perceived, his spirit seem‘d to chide 

Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride, 

And steel’d itself, as scorning to redeem 

One doubt from others’ half withheld esteem ; 

In self-inflicted penance of a breast 

Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest ; 

In vigilance of grief that would compel 

The soul to hate for having loved too well. 


CANTO I, LARA. 383 


XVIII. 


There was in him a vital scorn of all: 

As if the worst had fall’n which could befall, 
He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 
An erring spirit from another hurl’d ; 

A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped 

By choice the perils he by chance escaped ; 
But ’scaped in vain, for in their memory yet 
His mind would half exult and half regret : 
With more capacity for love than earth 
Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth, 
His early dreams of good outstripp’d the truth, 
And troubled manhood follow’d baffled youth ; 
With thought of years in phantom chase mispent, 
And wasted powers for better purpose lent ; 
And fiery passions that had pour’d their wrath 
In hurried desolation o’er his path, 

And left the better feelings all at strife 

In wild reflection o’er his stormy life ; 

But haughty still, and loth himself to blame, 
He call’d on Nature’s self to share the shame, 
And charged all faults upon the fleshly form 
She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm ; 
Till he at last confounded good and 1ll, 

And half mistook for fate the acts of will: 

Too high for common selfishness, he could 

At times resign his own for others’ good, 

But not in pity, not because he ought, 

But in some strange perversity of thought, 
That sway’d him onward with a secret pride 
To do what few or none would do beside ; 

And this same impulse would, m tempting time, 
Mislead his spirit equally to crime ; 

So much he soar’d beyond, or sunk beneath, 
The men with whom he felt condemn’d to breathe, 
And long’d by good or ill to separate 

Himself from all who shared his mortal state ; 
His mind abhorring this had fix’d her throne 
Far from the world, in regions of her own: 
Thus coldly passing all that pass’d below, 

His blood in temperate seeming now would flow : 
Ah! happier if it ne’er with guiit had glow’d, 
But ever.in that icy smoothness flow’d! 

°T is true, with other men their path he walk’d, 
And like the rest in seeming did and talk’d, 


f 


384 


LARA. 


Nor outraged Reason’s rules by flaw nor start, 
His madness was not of the head, but heart ; 
And rarely wander’d in his speech, or drew 
His thoughts so forth as to offend the view. 


XIX. 


With all that chilling mystery of mien, 

And seeming gladness to remain unseen, 

He had (if ’t were not nature’s boon) an art 

Of fixing memory on another’s heart : 

It was not love perchance — nor hate — nor aught 
That words can image to express the thought ; 
But they who saw him did not see in vain, 

And once beheld, would ask of him again : 

And those to whom he spake remember’d well, 
And on the words, however light, would dwell : 
None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined 
Himself perforce around the hearer’s mind ; 
‘There he was stamp’d, in liking, or in hate, 

If greeted once; however brief the date 

That friendship, pity, or aversion knew, 

Still there within the inmost thought he grew. 
You could not penetrate his soul, but found, 
Despite your wonder, to your own he wound ; 
His presence haunted still ; and from the breast 
He forced an all unwilling interest : 

Vain was the struggle in that mental net, 

His spirit seem’d to dare you to forget ! 


XX. 
There is a festival, where knights and dames, 
And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims, 
Appear — ἃ highborn and a welcome guest, 
To Otho’s hall came Lara with the rest. 
The long carousal shakes the illumined hall, 
Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball; 
And the gay dance of bounding Beauty’s train 
Links grace and harmony in happiest chain : 
Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands 
That mingle there in well according bands ; 
It is a sight the careful brow might smooth, 
And make Age smile, and dream itself to youth, 
And Youth forget such hour was past on earth, 
So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth! 


CANTO I, 


Οὐ 


CANTOL LARA. 


xX. 
And Lara. gazed on these, sedately glad, — 

His brow belied him if his soul was sad ; 

And his glance follow’d fast each fluttering fair, 
Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there : 

He lean’d against the lofty pillar nigh, 

With folded arms and long attentive eye, 

Nor mark’d a glance so sternly fix’d on his — 

ΠῚ brook’d high Lara scrutiny like this: 

At length he caught it, ’t is a face unknown, 

But seems as searching his, and his alone; 

Prying and dark, a stranger’s by his mien, 

Who still till now had gazed on him unseen: 

At length encountering meets the mutual gaze 

Of keen enquiry, and of mute amaze ; 

On Lara’s glance emotion gathering grew, 

As if distrusting that the stranger threw ; 

Along the stranger’s aspect, fix’d and stern, 

Flash’d more than thence the vulgar eye could learn. 


XXII. 
«Tis he!” the stranger cried, and those that heard 
Re-echoed fast and far the whisper’d word. 
«Tis he!” —“ fis who?” they question far and near, 
‘Till louder accents rung on Lara’s ear; 
So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook 
The general marvel, or that sinele look : 
But Lara stirr’d not, changed not, the surprise 
‘That sprung at first to his arrested eyes 
Seem’d now subsided, neither sunk nor raised 
Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger gazed ; 
And drawing nigh, exclaim’d, with haughty sneer, 
“Ὁ "Tis he ! — how came he thence ? — what doth he here?” 


XXIII. 
it were too much for Lara to pass by 
Such questions, so repeated fierce and high ; 
With look collected, but with accent cold, 
More mildly firm than petulantly bold, 
He turn’d, and met the inquisitorial tone — 
“ς My name is Lara ! — when thine own is known, 
Doubt not my fitting answer to requite 
The unlook’d for courtesy of such a knight. 
”T is Lara ! — further wouldst thou mark or ask 7 
{ shun no question, and I wear no mask.” 
VOL. IIl.—C € 


LARA. CANTS ἐ- 


‘ Thou shunn’st no question! Ponder — is there none 
Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would shun ! 
And deem’st thou me unknown too? Gaze again! 

ΑἹ least thy memory was not given in vain. 

Oh! never canst thou cancel half her debt, 

Eternity forbids thee to forget.” 

With slow and searching glance upon his face 

Grew Lara’s eyes, but nothing there could trace 

They knew, or chose to know — with dubious look 
He deign’d no answer, but his head he shock, 

And half contemptuous turn’d to pass away ; 

But the stern stranger motion’d him to stay. 

« A word! —I charge thee stay, and answer here 

To one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer, 

But as thou wast and art — nay, frown not, lord, 

If false, ’t is easy to disprove the word -— 

But, as thou wast and art, on thee looks down, 
Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown. 

Art thou not he? whose deeds ? 


“© Whate’er I be, 
Words wild as these, accusers like to thee 
I list no further; those with whom they weigh 
May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 
The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can teil, 
Which thus begins so courteously and well. 
Let Otho cherish here his polish’d guest, 
To him my thanks and thoughts shall be express’d.” 
And here their wondering host hath interposed — 
ςς Whate’er there be between you undisclosed, 
‘This is no time nor fitting place to mar 
The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 
If thou, Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show 
Which it befits Count Lara’s ear to know, 
To-morrow, here or elsewhere, as may best 
Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest ; 
I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown, 
Though, like Count Lara, now return’d alone 
From other lands, almost a stranger grown ; 
And if from Lara’s blood and gentle birth 
I augur right of courage and of worth, 
He will not that untainted line belie, 
Nor aught that knighthood may accord, deny.” 


** To-morrow be it,” Ezzelin replied, 
** And here our several worth and truth be tried ; 


yy -_ 
CANTSI. LARA. er / 


{ gage my life, my falchion to attest 

My words, so may I mingle with the blest! ” 
What answers Lava? to its centre shrunk 

His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk ; 

The words of many, and the eyes of all 

That there were gather’d, seem’d on him to fall ; 
But his were silent, his appear’d to stray 

In far forgetfulness away — away — 

Alas! that heedlessness of all around 

Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 


XXIV. 
“ὁ To-morrow ! — ay, to-morrow!” further word 
Than those repeated none from Lara heard ; 
Upon his brow no outward passion spoke ; 
From his large eye no flashing anger broke ; 
Yet there was something fix’d in that low tone, 
Which show’d resolve, determined, though unknown. 
He seized his cloak — his head he slightly bow’d, 
And passing Ezzelin, he left the crowd ; 
And, as he pass’d him, smiling met the frown 
With which that chieftain’s brow would bear him down : 
lt was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride 
That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide ; 
But that of one in his own heart secure 
Of all that he would do, or could endure. 
Could this mean peace? the calmness of the good? 
Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihocd ? 
Alas! too like in confidence are each, 
For man to trust to mortal Jook or speech; 
From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern 
Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to learn. 


ΧΧΥ. 
And Lara call’d his page, and went his way — 
Well could that stripling word or sign obey : 
His only follower from those climes afar, 
Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star ; 
For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung, 
In duty patient, and sedate though young ; 
Silent as him he served, his faith appears 
Above his station, and beyond his years. 
Though not unknown the tongue of Lara’s land, 
In such from him he rarely heard command ; 
But fleet his step, and clear his tones would ccme, 
When Lara’s lip breathed forth the words of home ; 


388 LARA. σαν τὸ 4 


Those accents as his native mountains dear, 
Awake their absent echoes in his ear, 

Friends’, kindreds’, parents’, wonted voice recall, 
Nor lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all: 
For him earth now disclosed no other guide ; 
What marvel then he rarely left his side ? 


XXVI. 
Light was his form, and darkly delicate 
That brow whereon his native sun had sate, 
But had not marr’d, though in his beams he grew, 
The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone throvgh ; 
Yet not such blush as mounts when health would show 
All the heart’s hue in that delighted glow ; 
But ’t was a hectic tint of secret care 
That for a burning moment fever’d there ; 
And the wild sparkle of his eye seem’d caught 
From high, and lighten’d with electric thought, 
Though its black orb those long low lashes’ fringe 
Had temper’d with a melancholy tinge ; 
Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there, 
Or if ’t were grief, a grief that none should share: 
And pleased not him the sports that please his age, 
The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page ; 
For hours on Lara he would fix his glance, 
As all-fergotten in that watchful trance ; 
And from his chief withdraw, he wander’d lone, 
Brief were his answers, and his questions none’; 
His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book ; 
His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook : 
He seem’d, like him he served, to live apart 
From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart ; 
To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 
No gift beyond ti at bitter boon — our birth. 


XXVII. 

If aught he loved, ’t was Lara; but was shown 
His faith in reverence and in deeds alone ; 

In mute atiention ; and his care, which guess’d 
Each wish, fulfill’d it ere the tongue express’d. 
Still there was haughtiness in all he did, 

A spirit deep that brook’d not to be chid; 

His zeal, though more than that of servile hands, 
In act alone obeys, his air commands ; 

As if Ὁ was Lara’s less than his desire 

That thus he served, but surely not for hire. 


CANYO 1. LARA. 939 


Slight were the tasks enjoin’d him by his lord, 
To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword ; 

To tune his lute, or if he will’d it more, 

On tomes of other times and tongues to pore ; 
But ne’er to mingle with the menial train, 

To whom he show’d nor deference nor disdain, 
But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew 
No sympathy with that familiar crew: 

His soul, whate’er his station or his stem, 

Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. 

Of higher birth he seem’d, and better days, 

Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, 

So femininely white it might bespeak 

Another sex, when match’d with that smooth cheek, 
But for his garb, and something in his gaze, 
More wild and high than woman’s eye betrays ; 
A latent fierceness that far more became 

His fiery climate than his tender frame : 

True, in his words it broke not from his breast, 
But from his aspect might be more than guess’d. 
Kaled his name, though rumour said he bore 
Another ere he left the mountain-shore ; 

For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 
‘That name repeated loud without reply, 

As unfamiliar, or, if roused again, 

Start to the sound, as but remember’d then ; 
Unless ’t was Lara’s wonted voice that spake, 
For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 


XXVIII. 


He had look’d down upon the festive hall, ; 
And mark’d that sudden strife so mark’d of all; 

And when the crowd around and near him told, 

‘Their wonder at the calmness of the bold, 

Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore 

Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore, 

The colour of young Kaled went and came, 

The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame ; 

And o’er his brow the dampening heart-drops threw 
The sickening iciness of that cold dew, 

That rises as the busy bosom sinks 

With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks. 
Yes — there be things which we must dream and care. 
And execute ere thought be half aware : 

Whate’er might Kaled’s be, it was enow 

To seal his lip, but agonise his brow. 


390 


LARA. 


He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast 

That sidelong smile upon the knight he past ; 
When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell, 

As if on something recognised right well; 

His memory read in such a meaning more 

Than Lara’s aspect unto others wore : 

Forward he sprung —% moment, hoth were gone, 
And ail within that hall seem/’d Ieft alone ; 

Each had so fix’d his eye on Lara’s mien, 

All had so mix’d their feelings with that scene, 
That when his long dark shadow through the porch 
No more relieves the glare of yon high torch, 
Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 
To bound as doubting from too black a dream, 
Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth, 
Because the worst is ever nearest truth. 

Aud they are gone — but Ezzelin is there, 

With thoughtful visage and imperious air ; 

But long remain’d not; ere an hour expired 

He waved his hand to Otho, and retired. 


XXIX. 


The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest ; 

The courteous host, and all-approving guest, 
Again to that accustom’d couch must creep 

Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, 
And man, o’erlabour’d with his being’s strife, 
Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life : 

There lie love’s feverish hope, and cunning’s guile, 
Hate’s working brain, and lull’d ambition’s wile ; 
O’er each vain eye oblivion’s pinions wave, 

And quench’d existence crouches in a grave. 

What better name may slumber’s bed become ? 
Night’s sepulchre, the universal home, 

Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine, 
Alike in naked helplessness recline ; 

Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath, 

Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death, 

And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased, 
That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. 


CANTO ἢ» 


ει bee 53 


CANTO THE SECOND. 


I. 


Nicur wanes — the vapours round the mountains curi'd 
Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world. 
Man has another day to swell the past, 

And lead him near to little, but his last ; 

But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth, 
The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth ; 
Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam, 
Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. 
Immortal man! behold her glories shine, 

And ery, exulting inly, “ They are thine ! ” 
Gaze on, while yet thy gladden’d eye may sce ; 
A morrow comes when they are not for thee: 
And grieve what may above thy senseless bier, 
Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear ; 

Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall, 
Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all ; 
But creeping things shall revel in their spoil, 
And fit thy clay to fertilize the soil. 


il. 


’T is morn —’t is noon — assembled in the hall 
The gather’d chieftains come to Otho’s call ; 

”T is now the promised hour, that must proclaim 
The life or death of Lara’s future fame ; 

When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold, 

And whatsoe’er the tale, it must be told. 

His faith was pledged, and Lara’s promise given,: 
To meet it in the eye of man and heaven. 

Why comes he not? Such truths to be divulged, 
Methinks the accuser’s rest is long indulged. 


992 


LARAo CANTO 53, 


III. 


The hour is past, and Lara too is there, 

With self-confiding, coldly patient air ; 

Why comes not Ezzelin ? The hour is past, 
And murmurs rise, and Ctho’s brow o’ercast. 
“ἢ know my friend! his faith 1 cannot fear, 
if yet he be on earth, expect him here; 

The roof that held him in the valley stands 
Between my own and noble Lara’s lands ; 

My halls from such a guest had honour gain’d, 
Nor had Sir E:zzelin his host disdain’d, 

But that some previous proof forbade his stay, 
And urged him to prepare against to-day ; 
The word 1 pledged for his I pledge again, 

Or will myself redeem his knighthood’s stain.” 


He ceased — and Lara answer’d, “I am here 

To lend at thy demand a listening ear 

To tales of evil from a stranger’s tongue, 

Whose words already might my heart have wrung, 
But that I deem’d him scarcely less than mad, 

Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. 

T know him not — but me it seems he knew 

In lands where — but I must not trifle too: 
Produce this babbler — or redeem the pledge ; 
Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion’s edge.” 


Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw 
His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew. 
** The last alternative befits me best, 

And thus I answer for mine absent guest.” 


With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom, 
However near his own or other’s tomb ; 

With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke 
Its grasp well-used to deal the sabre-stroke ; 
With eye, though calm, determined not to spare, 
Did Lara too his willing weapon bare. 

{n vain the circling chieftains round them closed, 
For Otho’s frenzy would not be opposed ; 

And from his lip those words of insult fell — 

His sword is good who can maintain them well. 


Iv. 
Short was the conflict; furious, blindly rash, 
Vain Otho gave his bosom tothe gash: 


ΓΑΝΤΟΊ I LARA. 398 


He bled, and fell; but not with deadly wound, 
Stretch’d by a dextrous sleight along the ground. 
‘¢ Demand thy life!”? He answer’d not: and then 
From that red floor he ne’er had risen again, 

For Lara’s brow upon the moment grew 

Almost to blackness in its demon hue ; 

And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 

Than when his foe’s was levell’d at his brow ; 
Then all was stern collectedness and art, 

Now rose the unleaven’d hatred of his heart ; 

So little sparing to the foe he fell’d, 

‘That when the approaching crowd his arm withheld, 
He almost-turn’d the thirsty point on those, 

Who thus for mercy dared to interpose ; 

But to a moment’s thought that purpose bent ; 
Yet look’d he on him still with eye intent, 

As if he loathed the ineffectual strife 

That left a foe, howe’er o’erthrown, with life ; 

As if to search how far the wound he gave 

Had sent its victim onward to his grave. 


v. 
They raised the bleeding Otho, and the Leech 
Forbade all present question, sign, and speech ; 
The others met within a neighbouring hall, 
And he, incensed and heedless of them all, 
The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray, 
In haughty silence slowly strode away ; 
He back’d his steed, his homeward path he took, 
Nor cast on Otho’s towers a single look. 


VI. 

But where was he? that meteor of a night, 
Who menaced but to disappear with light ? 
Where was this Eezzlin? who came and went 
To leave no other trace of his intent. 

He left the dome of Otho long ere morn, 

In darkness, yet so well the path was worn 

He could not miss it: near his dwelling lay ; 
But there he was not, and with coming day 
Came fast enquiry, which unfolded nought 
Except the absence of the chief it sought. 

A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, 

His host alarm’d, his murmuring squires distress’d : 
Their search extends along, around the path, 
In dread to meet the marks of prowlers’ wrath : 


994 


LARA. 


But none are there, and not a brake hath borne 
Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn ; 
Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass, 
Which still retains a mark where murder was ; 
Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale, 

‘The bitter print of each convulsive nail, 

When agonised hands that cease to suard, 
Wound in that paug the smoothness of the sward 
Some such had been, if here a life was reft, 

But these were not ; and doubting hope is left ; 
And strange suspicion, whispering Lara’s name, 
Now daily mutters o’er his blacken’d fame ; 
Then sudden silent when his form appear’d, 
Awaits the absence of the thing it fear’d 

Again its wonted wondering to renew, 

And dye conjecture with a darker hue. 


Vit. 


Days roll along, and Otho’s wounds are heal’d, 
But not his pride ; and hate no more conceal’d : 
He was a man of power, and Lara’s foe, 

The friend of all who sought to work him woe, 
And from his country’s justice now demands 
Account of Ezzelin at Lara’s hands. 

Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 
His presence? whe had mad him disappear, 

If not the man on whom his menaced charge 
Had sate too deeply were he left at large ἢ 

The general rumour ignorantly loud, 

The mystery dearest to the curious crowd ; 

‘The seeming friendlessness of him who strove 
‘To win no confidence, and wake no love ; 

The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray’d, 
The skill with which he wielded his keen blade 
Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art ? 
Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart ? 
For it was not the blind capricious rage 

A word can kindle and a word assuage ; 

But the deep working of a soul unmix’d 

With aught of pity where its wrath had fix’d ; 
Such as long power and overgorged success 
Concentrates into all that ’s merciless : 

These, link’d with that desire which ever sways 
Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise, 
*Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm, 
Such as himself might fear, and foes would form, 


CANTG "1. 


ΘΑΝΊΟ IL LARA 395 


And he must answer for the absent head 
Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead. 


VIII. 


Within that land was many a malcontent, 

Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent ; 

That soil full many a wringing despot'saw, 

Who work’d his wantonness in form of law ; 
Long war without and frequent broil within 

Had made a path for blood and giant sin, 

That waited but a signal to begin 

New havoc, such as civil discord blends, 

Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friends ; 
Fix’d in his feudal fortress each was lord, 

In word and deed obey’d, in soul abhors*d. 

Thus Lara had inherited his lands, . 

And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands ; 
But that long absence from his native clime 

Had left him stainless of oppression’s crime, 

And now, d*ried by his milder sway, 

All dread by slow degrees had worn away. 

The menials felt their usual awe alone, 

But more fer him than them that fear was grown ; 
They deem’d him now unhappy, though ai first 
Their evil judgment augu ἢ of the worst, 

And each long restless night, and silent mood, 
Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude : 

And though his lonely habits threw of late 
Glocm o’er his chamber, cheerful was his gate ; 
For thence the wretched ne’er unsoothed withdrew, 
For them, at least, his soul compassion knew. 
Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high, 

The humble pass’d not his unheeding eye ; 
Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof 
They found asylum oft, and ne’er reproof. 

And they who watch’d might mark that, day by day, 
Some new retainers gather’d to his sway ; 

Bui most of late, since Ezzelin was lost, ἢ 

He play’d the courteous lord and bounteous host : 
Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread 
Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head ; 
Whate’er his view, his favour more obtains 

With these, the people, than his fellow thanes. 

If this were policy, so far ’t was sound, 

The million judged but of him as they found ; 


LARA. CANTO ii. 


From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven 

They but required a shelter, and ’t was given. 

By him no peasant mourn’d his rifled cot, 

And scarce the Serf could murmur o’er his lot; 
With him old avarice found its hoard secure, 

With him contempt forbore to mock the poor : 
Youth present cheer and promised recompense 
Detain’d, till all too late to part from thence : 

To hate he offer’d, with the coming change, 

The deep reversion of delay’d revenge ; 

To love, long baffled by the unequal match, 

The well-won charms success was sure to snatch. 
All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim 

Thai slavery nothing which was still a name. 

The moment came, the hour when Cthe thought 
Secure at last the vengeance which he sought : 

His summons found the destined criminal 

Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall, 

Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven, 
Defying earth, and confident of heaven. 

That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves 
Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves! 

Such is their cry — some watchword for the fight 
Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right ; 
Religion — freedom — vengeance — what you will, 
A word’s enough to raise mankind to kill ; 

Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread, 
That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed! 


ΙΧ. 
Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain’d 
Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign’d ; 
Now was the hour for faction’s rebel growth, 
The Serfs contemn’d the one, and hated both: 
They waited but a leader, and they found 
One to their cause inseparably bound ; 
By circumstance compell’d to plunge again, 
In self-defence, amidst the strife of men. 
Cut off by some mysterious fate from those 
Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes, 
Had Lara from that night, to him accurst, 
Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst: 
Some reason urged, whate’er it was, to shun 
Enquiry into deeds at distance done ; 
By mingling with his own the cause of all, 
E’en if he fail’d, he still delay’d his fall. 


CANTO 1]. LARA. 397 


The sullen calm that long his bosom kept, 

The storm that once had spent itself and slept, 
Roused by events that seem’d foredoom’d to urge 
His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge, 
Burst forth, and made him all he once had been, 
And is again ; he only changed the scene. 
Light care had he for life, and less for fame, 
But not less fitted for the desperate game : 

He deem’d himself mark’d out for others’ hate, 
And mock’d at ruin so they shared his fate. 
What cared he for the freedom of the crowd ? 
He raised the humble but to bend the proud. 
He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair, 

But man and destiny beset him there : 

Inured to hunters, he was found at bay ; 

And they must kill, they cannot snare the prey. 
Stern, unambitious, silent, he had been 
Henceforth a calm spectator of life’s scene ; 
But, drage’d again upon the arena, stood 

A leader not unequa! to the feud ; 

In voice — mien — gesture — savage nature spoke, 
And from his eye the gladiator broke. 


Xo 


What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, 

The feast of vultures, and the waste of life? 

The varying fortune of each separate field, 

The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield? 
The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall ? 

In this the struggle was the same with all ; 

Save that distemper’d passions lent their force 

In bitterness that banish’d all remorse. 

None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain, 
The captive died upon the battle-plain : 

In either cause, one rage alone possess’d 

The empire of the alternate victor’s breast ; 

And they that smote for freedom or for sway, 
Deem’d few were slain, while more remain’d to slay. 
It was too late to check the wasting brand, 

And Desolation reap’d the famish’d land ; 

The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread, 
And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead. 


388 


LARA. 


Xi. 


Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse strung, 
The first success to Lara’s numbers clung: 
But that vain victory hath ruin’d all ; 

They form no longer to their leader’s call : 

In blind confusion on the foe they press, 

And think to snatch is to secure success. 

The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate, 

Lure on-the broken brigands to their fate : 

in vain he doth whate’er a chief may do, 

To check the headlong fury of that crew ; 

In vain their stubborn ardour he would tame, 
The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame ; 
The wary foe alone hath turn’d their mood, 
And shown their rashness to that erring brood : 
The feign’d retreat, the nightly ambuscade, 
The daily harass, and the fight delay’d, 

The long privation of the hoped supply, 

The tentless rest beneath the humid sky, 

The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer’s art, 
And palls the patience of his baflled heart, 

Of these they had not deem’d: the battle-day 
They could encounter as a veteran may ; 

But more preferr’d the fury of the strife, 

And present death, to hourly suffering life : 
And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away 
His numbers melting fast from their array ; 
Intemperate triumph fades to discontent, 

And Lara’s soul alone seems still unbent : 

But few remain to aid his voice and hand, 

And thousands dwindled to a scanty band: 
Desperate, though few, the last and best remain’d 
To mourn the discipline they late disdain’d. 
One hope survives, the frontier is not far, 

And thence they may escape from native war ; 
And bear within them to the neighbouring state 
An exile’s sorrows, or an outlaw’s hate : 

Hard is the task their father-land to quit, 

But harder still to perish or submit. 


XII. 
it is resolved — they march — consenting Night 
Guides with her star their dim and torchless flight : 
Already they perceive its tranquil beam 
Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream; 


CANTO 


[3] 


CANTO I LARA. 3998 


Already they descry —Is yon the bank ? 

Away ! ’t is lmed with many a hostile rank. 
Return or fly! — What glitters in the rear ? 

Γ is Otho’s banner — the pursuer’s spear! 

Are those the shepherds’ fires upon the height ? 
Alas! they blaze too widely for the flight : 

Cut off from hope, and compass’d in the toil, 
Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spoil ! 


XIII. 


A moment’s pause, ’t is but to breathe their band 
Or shall they onward press, or here withstand ? 
It matters little — if they charge the foes 

Who by their border-stream their march oppose, 
Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line, 
However link’d to baffle such design. 

‘The charge be ours! to wait for their assault 
Were fate well worthy of a coward’s halt.” 

Forth flies each sabre, rein’d is every steed, 

And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed : 
In the next tone of Lara’s gathering breath 

How many shall but hear the voice of death! 


XIV. 


His blade is bared, in him there is an air 

As deep, but far too tranquil for despair ; 

A something of indifference more than then 
Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men. 

He turn’d his eye on Kaled, ever near, 

And still too faithful to betray one fear ; 
Perchance ’t was but the moon’s dim twilight threw 
Along his aspect an unwonted hue 

Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint express’d 
The truth, and not the terror of his breast. 

This Lara mark’d, and laid his hand on his: 

it trembled not in such an hour as this ; 

His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart, 

His eye alone proclaim’d, “ We will not part ! 
Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee, 
Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee! ” 


The word hath pass’d his lips, and onward driven, 
Pours the link’d band through ranks asunder riven ; 
Well has each steed obey’d the armed heel, 

And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel ; 


LARA. CANTO H. 


Outnumber’d, not outbraved, they still oppose 
Despair to daring, and a front to foes ; 

And blood is mingled with the dashing stream, 
Which runs all redly till the morning beam. 


XV. 
Commanding, aiding, animating all, 

Where foe appear’d to press, or friend to fali, 
Cheers Lara’s voice, and waves or strikes his steel, 
Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel. 

None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain ; 
But those that waver turn to smite again, 

While yet they find the firmest of the foe 

Recoil before their leader’s look and blow : 

Now girt with numbers, now almost alone, 

He foils their ranks, or re-unites his own ; 

Himself he spared not — once they seem’d to fy — 
Now was the time, he waved his hand on high, 
And shook — Why sudden droops that plumed crest 
The shaft is sped — the arrow’s in his breast! 

That fatal gesture left the unguarded side, 

And Death hath stricken down yon arm of pride. 
The word of triumph fainted from his tongue ; 

That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung ! 

But yet the sword instinctively retains, 

Though from its fellow shrink the falling reims, 
These Kaled snatches: dizzy with the blow, 

And senseless bending o’er his saddie-bow, 
Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 

Beguiles his charger from the combat’s rage : 
Meantime his followers charge, and charge again ; 
Too mix’d the slayers now to heed the slain! 


XVI. 


Day glimmers on the dying and the dead, 

The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head ; 
The war-horse masterless is on the earth, 

And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth ; 
And near, yet quivering with what life remain’d, 
The heel that urged him and the hand that rein’d ; 
And some too near that rolling torrent lie, 
Whose waters mock the lip of those that die ; 
That panting thirst which scorches in the breath, 
Of those that die the soldier’s fiery death, 

ἴῃ vain impels the burning mouth to crave 

Une drop — the last — to cool it for the grave ; 


CANTO II. LARA. 401 


With feeble and convulsive effort swept, 

Their limbs along the crimson’d turf have crept ; 
The faint remains of life such struggles waste, 

But yet they reach the stream, and bend to taste: 
They feel its freshness, and almost partake — 
Why pause? No further thirst have they to slake — 
It is unquench’d, and yet they feel it not ; 

It was an agony — but now forgot! 


XVII. 
Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, 
Where but for him the strife had never been, 
A breathing but devoted warrior lay : 
Ὕ was Lara bleeding fast from life away. 
His follower once, and now his only guide, 
Kneels Kaled watchful o’er his welling side, 
And with his scarf would stanch the tides that rush, 
With each convulsion, in a blacker gush ; 
And then, as his faint breathing waxes low, 
In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow : 
He scarce can speak, but motions him ’t is vain, 
And merely adds another throb to pain. 
He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage, 
And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page, } 
Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees, 
Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees ; 
Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim, 
Held all the light that shone on earth for him. 


XVIII. 
The foe arrives, who long had search’d the field, 
Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield ; 
They would remove him, but they see ’t were vain. 
And he regards them with a calm disdain, 
That rose to reconcile him with his fate, 
And that escape to death from living hate : 
And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed, 
Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed, 
And questions of his state ; he answers not, 
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot, 
And turns to Kaled : — each remaining word, 
They understood not, if distinctly heard ; 
His dying tones are in that other tongue, 
To which some ~trange remembrance wildly clung. 
They spake of other scenes, but what — is known 
To Kaled, whom their .1eaning reach’d alone ; 

VOL. 1Π1.--Ὁ ἃ 


4U2 LARA. CANTO It. 


And he replied, though faintly, to their sound, 

While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round : 
They seem’d even then — that twain — unto the last 
To half forget the present in the past ; 

To share between themselves some separate fate, 
Whose darkness none beside should penetrate. 


XIX. 


Their words though faint were many — from the tone 
Their import those who heard could judge alone ; 
From this, you might have deem’d young Kaled’s death 
More near than Lara’s by his voice and breath, 

So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke 

The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke ; 

But Lara’s voice, though low, at first was clear 

And calm, till murmuring death gasp’d hoarsely near : 
But from his visage little could we guess, 

So unrepentant, dark, and passionless, 

Save that when struggling nearer to his last, 

Upon that page his eye was kindly cast ; 

And once, as Kaled’s answering accents ceased, 
Rose Lara’s hand, and pointed to the East : 

Where (as then the breaking sun from high 

Roll’d back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye, 
Or that ’t was chance, or some remember’d scene, 
That raised his arm to point where such had been, 
Scarce Kaled seem’d to know, but turn’d away, 

As if his heart abhorr’d that coming day, 

And shrunk his glance before that morning light, 

To look on Lara’s brow — where all grew night. 

Yet sense seem’d left, though better were its loss , 
For when one near display’d the absolving cross, 
And proffer’d to his touch the holy bead, 

Of which his parting soul might own the need, 

He look’d upon it with an eye profane, 

And smiled — Heaven pardon! if ’t were with disdain : 
And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew 
From Lara’s face his fix’d despairing view, 

With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift, 

Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift, 

As if such but disturb’d the expiring man, 

Nor seem’d to know his life but then began, 

That life of Immortality, secure 

To none, save them whose faith in Christ is sure. 


CANTO SL LARA. 4038 


XX. 


But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew, 

And dull the film along his dim eye grew; 

His limbs stretch’d fluttering, and his head droop’d o’er 
The weak yet still untiring knee that bore ; 

He press’d the hand he held upon his heart — 

It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 

With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain, 

For that faint throb which answers not again. 

“‘ It beats! ”? — Away, thou dreamer! he is gone — 

It once was Lara which thou look’st upon. 


XXI. 


He gazed, as if not yet had pass’d away 

The haughty spirit of that humble clay ; 

And those around have roused him from his trance, 
But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance ; 
And when, in raising him fromwhere he bore 
Within his arms the form that felt no more, 

He saw the head his breast would still sustain, 
Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain ; 

He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear 

The glossy tendrils of his raven hair, 

But strove to stand and gaze, but reel’d and fell, 
Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well. 
Than that he loved! Oh! never yet beneath 

The breast of man such trusty love may breathe ! 
That trying moment hath at once reveal’d 

The secret long and yet but half-conceal’d ; 

In baring to revive that lifeless breast, 3 

Its grief seem’d ended, but the sex confess’d ; 
And life return’d, and Kaled felt no shame — 
What now to her was Womanhood or Fame ? 


XXII. 


And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep, 
But where he died his grave was dug as deep; 
Nor is his mortal slumber less profound, 
Though priest nor bless’d nor marble deck’d the mound ; 
And he was mourn’d by one whose quiet grief, 
Less loud, outlasts a people’s for their chief. 
‘Vain was all question ask’d her of the past, 
And vain e’en menace — silent to the last ; 
She told nor whence, nor why she left behind 
Her all for one who seem’d but little kind. 


404 LARA. CANTO Ii. 


Why did she love him? Curious fool !— be still — 
Is human love the growth of human will ? 

To her he might be gentleness ; the stern 

Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern, 
And when they love, your smilers guess not how 
Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. 
They were not common links, that form’d the chain 
That bound to Lara Kaled’s heart and brain ; 

But that wild tale she brook’d not to unfold, 

And seal’d is now each lip that could have told. 


XXIII. 

They laid him in the earth, and on his breast, 
Besides the wound that sent:his soul to rest, 
They found the scatter’d dints of many a scar, 
Which were not planted there in recent war ; 
Where’er had pass’d his summer years of life, 

It seems they vanish’d in a land of strife ; 

But all unknown his glory or his guilt, 

These only told that somewhere blood was spilt, 
And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past, 
Return’d no more — that night appear’d his last. 


XXIV. 


Upon that night (a peasant’s is the tale) 
A Serf that cross’d the intervening vale, (’) 


(1) The event in this section was suggested by the description of the death, or 
rather burial, of the Duke of Gandia. 

The most interesting and particular account of this mysterious event is given by 
Burchard, and is in substance as follows :—‘‘ On the eighth day of June, the Cardinal 
of Valenza and the Duke of Gandia, sons of the Pope, supped with their mother, 
Vanozza, near the church of S, Pietro ad vincula ; several other persons being pre- 
sent at the entertainment. A late hour approaching, and the cardinal having remind- 
ed his brother that it was time to return to the apostolic palace, they mounted their 
horses or mules, with only a few attendants, and proceeded together as far as the 
palace of Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, when the duke informed the cardinal that, before 
he returned home, he had to pay a visit of pleasure. Dsinissing therefore all his at- 
tendants, excepting his staffiero, or footman, and a person ina mask, who had paid 
him a visit whilst at supper, and who, during the space of a month or thereabouts, 
previous te this time, had called upon him almost daily, at the apostolic palace, he 
took this person behind him on his mule, and proceeded to the street of the Jews, 
where he quitted his servant, directing him to remain there until a certain hour ; 
when, if he did not return, he might repair to the palace. The duke then seated the 
person in the mask behind him, and rode, I know not whither: but in that night he 
was assassinated, and thrown into the river. The servant, afier having been dis- 
missed, was also assaulted and mortally wounded; and although he was aitended 
with great care, yet such was his situation, that he could give no intelligible account 
of what had befallen his master. In the morning, the duke not having returned to the 
palace, his servants began to be alarmed; and one of them informed the pontiff of 
the evening excursion of his sons, and that the duke had not yet made his appearance. 
This gave the pope no small anxiety ; but he conjectured that the duke had been at- 
tracted by some courtesan to pass the might with her, and, not choosing to quit the 
house in open day, had waited till the following evening to retum home. When, 


CANTO II. LARA. 405 


When Cynthia’s light almost gave way to morn, 
And nearly veil’d in mist her waning horn ; 

A Serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood, 

And hew the bough that bought his children’s food, 
Pass’d by the river that divides the plain 

Of Otho’s lands and Lara’s broad domain : 

He heard a tramp —a horse and horseman broke 
From out the wood — before him was a cloak 
Wrapt round some burthen at his saddle-bow, 

Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow. 
Roused by the sudden sight at such a time, 

And some foreboding that it might be crime, 
Himself unheeded watch’d the stranger’s course, 
Who reach’d the river, bounded from his horse, 
And lifting thence the burthen which he bore, 
Heaved up the bank, and dash’d it from the shore, 
Then paused, and look’d, and turn’d, and seem’d to watch, 
And still another hurried glance would snatch, 


however, the evening arrived, and he found himself disappointed in his expectations, he 
became deeply afflicted, and began to make enquiries from different persons, whom he 
ordered to attend him for that purpose. Among these was a man named Giorgio Schia- 
voni, who, having discharged some tirnber from a bark in the river, had remained on board 
the vessel to watch it ; and being interrogated whether he had seen any one thrown 
into the river on the night preceding, he replied, that he saw two men on foot, who 
came down the street, and looked diligently about, to observe whether any person 
was passing. That seeing no one, they returned, and a short time afterwards two 
others came, and looked around in the same manner as the former: no person stil! 
appearing, they gave a sign to their companions, when a man came, mounted on a 
white horse, having behind him a dead body, the head and arms of which hung on one 
side, and the feet on the other side of the horse ; the two persons on foot supporting the 
body, to prevent its falling. They thus proceeded towards that part, where the filth of the 
city is usually discharged into the river, and turning the horse, with his tail towards the 
water, the two persons took the dead body by the arms and feet, and with all their 
strength flung it into the river. The person on horseback then asked if they had 
thrown it in ; to which they replied, Signor, δὲ, (yes, Sir.) He then looked towards 
the river, and seeing a mantle floating on the stream, he enquired what it was that ap- 
peared black, to which they answered, it was a mantle; and one of them threw stones 
upon it, in consequence of which it sunk. ‘The attendants of the pontiff then enquired 
from Giorgio, why he had not revealed this to the governor of the city ; to which he re- 
plied, that he had seen inhis time a hundred dead bodies thrown into the river at the same 
place, without any enquiry being made respecting them ; and that he had not, therefore, 
considered it as a matter of any importance. ‘The fishermen and seamen were then 
collected, and ordered to search the river, where, on the following evening, they found 
the body of the duke, with his habit entire, and thirty ducats in his purse. He was 
pierced with nine wounds, one of which was in his throat, the others in his head, 
body, and limbs. No sooner was the pontiff informed of the death of his son, and 
that he had been thrown, like filth, into the river, than, giving way to his grief, he 
shut himself up ina chamber, and wept bitterly. The Cardinal of Segovia, and other 
attendants on the pope, went to the door, and after many hours spent in persuasions 
and exhortations, prevailed upon him to admit them. From the evening of Wednes- 
day tillthe following Saturday the pope took no food; nor did he sleep from Thurs- 
day morning till the same hour on the ensuing day. At length, however, giving way 
to the entreaties of his attendants, he began to restrain his sorrow, and to consider the 
injury which his own health might sustain, by the further indulgence of his grief.”— 
Roscoe’s Leo Tenth, vol. 1. page 265. 


406 


LARA. CAN10 wm. 


And follow with his step the stream that flow’d, 
As ifeven yet too much its surface show’d : 

At once he started, stoop’d, around him strown 
The winter floods had scatter’d heaps of stone ; 
Of these the heaviest thence he gather’d there, 
And slung them with a more than common care. 
Meantime the Serf had crept to where unseen 
Himself might safely mark what this might mean , 
He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast, 
And something glitter’d starlike on the vest ; 
But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, 
A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk: 

It rose again, but indistinct to view, 

And left the waters of a purple hue, 

Then deeply disappear’d: the horseman gazed, 
Till ebb’d the latest eddy it had raised ; 

Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed, 

And instant spurr’d him into panting speed. 

His face was mask’d — the features of the dead, 
If dead it were, escaped the observer’s dread ; 
But if in sooth a star its bosom bore, 

Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore, 
And such ’t is known Sir Ezzelin had worn 
Upon the night that led to such a morn. 

If thus he perish’d, Heaven receive his soul ! 
His undiscover’d limbs to ocean roll ; 

And charity upon the hope would dwell 

It was not Lara’s hand by which he fell. 


XXV. 
And Kaled — Lara — Ezzelin, are gone, 

Alike without their monumental stone ! 

The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 

From lingering where her chieftain’s blood had been; 
Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud, 

Her tears were few, her wailing never loud ; 

But furious would you tear her from the spot 

Where yet she scarce believed that he was not, 

Her eye shot forth with all the living fire 

That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire ; 

But left to waste her weary moments there, 

She talk’d all idly unto shapes of air, 

Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints, 

And woos to listen to her fond complaints : 

And she would sit beneath the very tree 

Where lay his drooping head upon her knee ; 


CANTO II. 


LARA. . 407 


And in that posture where she saw him fall, 

His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall ; 
And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair, 
And oft would snatch it from her bosom there, 
And fold, and press it gently to the ground, 

As if she stanch’d anew some phantom’s wound. 
Herself would question, and for him reply ; 
Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly 

From some imagined spectre in pursuit ; 

Then seat her down upon some linden’s root, 
And hide her visage with her meagre hand, 

Or trace strange characters along the sand — 
This could not last — she lies by him she loved ; 
Her tale untold — her truth too dearly proved. 


ba aise. pen 


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THE 


SIEGE OF CORINTH. 


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JHTALAOD TO andte 


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TO 
JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. 


THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED 


BY HIS 
FRIEND. 


January 22, 1816, 


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COTM οἱ NOS AAT 
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ADVERTISEMENT. 


‘THe grand army of the Turks, (in 1715,) under the Prime 
Vizier, to open to themselves a way intothe heart of the Morea, 
and to form the siege of Napoli di Romania, the most considerable 
piace in all that country, (’) thought it best in the first place to 
attack Corinth, upon which they made several storms. The 
garrison being weakened, and the governor seeing it was impes- 
sible to hold out against so mighty a force, thought it fit to beat a 
parley : but while they were treating about the articles, one of the 
magazines in the Turkish camp, wherein they had six hundred 
barrels of powder, blew up by accident, whereby six or seven 
hundred men were killed; which so enraged the infidels, that 
they would not grant any capitulation, but stormed the place with 
so much fury, that they took it, and put most of the garrison, with 
Signior Minotti, the governor, to the sword. The rest, with An- 
tonio Bembo, proveditor extraordinary, were made prisoners of 
war.” — History of the Turks, vol. tii. p. 151. 

(1) Napoli di Romania is not now the most considerable place in the Morea, but 
Tripolitza, where the Pacha resides, and maintains his government, Napoli is near 
Argos. I visited allthree in, 1810-11; and in the course of journeying through the 
country from my first arrival in 1809, I crossed the Isthmus eight times in my way 
from Attica to the Morea, over the mountains, or in the other direction, when passing 
(rom the Gulfof Athens to that of Lepanto. Both the routes are picturesque and 
beautiful, house very different: that by sea has more sameness, but the voyage be- 


ing always within sight of land, and often very near it, presents many attractive 
views of the islands Salamis, /Egina, Poro, &c, and the coast of the Contment. 


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ν᾿ Re ee artes’ oH δον: δι Salt ete innate 
te ἘΠ iw hoe αἴας, Sows He Of, ΠΥ ce ion cee ia 
: Ἦ ἦν ee, shai, eaiinenRe πονῶ ᾿ arr 5 
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ἥ ᾿ Lae “ae fies ren 
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THE 


SIEGE OF CORINTH 


I. 


Many a vanish’d year and age, 

And tempest’s breath, and battle’s rage, 
Have swept o’er Corinth ; yet she stands, 
A fortress form’d to Freedom’s hands. 
The whirlwind’s wrath, the earthquake’s shock, 
Have left untouch’d her hoary rock, 

The keystone of a land, which still, 
Though fall’n, looks proudly on that hill, 
The landmark to the double tide 

That purpling rolls on either side, 

As if their waters chafed to meet, 

Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 
But could the blood before her shed 
Since first Timoleon’s brother bled, 

Or baffled Persia’s despot fled, 

Arise from out the earth which drank 

The stream of slaughter as it sank, 

That sanguine ocean would o’erflow 

Her isthmus idly spread below : 

Or could the bones of all the slain, 

Who perish’d there, be piled again, 

That rival pyramid would rise 

More mountain-like, through those clear skies, 
Than yon tower-capp’d Acropolis, 

Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 


II. 


On dun Citheron’s ridge appears 

The gleam of twice ten thousand spears ; 
And downward to the Isthmian plain, 
From shore to shore of either main, 


416 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 


The tent is pitch’d, the crescent shines 
Along the Moslem’s leaguering lines ; 
And the dusk Spahi’s bands advance 
Beneath each bearded pacha’s glance ; 
And far and wide as eye can reach 

The turban’d cohorts throng the beach ; 
And there the Arab’s camel kneels, 

And there his steed the Tartar wheels ; 
The Turcoman hath left his herd, (’) 
The sabre round his loins to gird ; 

And there the volleying thunders pour 
Till waves grow smoother to the roar. 
The trench is dug, the cannon’s breath 
Wings the far hissing globe of death ; 
Fast whirl the fragments from the wall, 
Which crumbles with the ponderous ball ; 
And from that wall the foe replies, 

O’er dusty plain and smoky skies, 

With fires that answer fast and well 
The summons of the Infidel. 


ill. 


But near and nearest to the wall 

Of those who wish and work its fall, 
With deeper skill im war’s black art, 
Than Othman’s sons, and high of heart, 
As any chief that ever stood 
Triumphant in the fields of blood ; 
From post to post, and deed to deed, 
Fast spurring on his reeking steed, 
Where sallying ranks the trench assail, 
And make the foremost Moslem quail ; 
Or where the battery, guarded well, 
Remains as yet impregnable, 

Alighting cheerly to inspire 

The soldier slackening in his fire ; 

The first and freshest of the host 

Which Stamboul’s sultan there can boast, 
To guide the follower o’er the field, 

To point the tube, the lance to wield, 
Or whirl around the bickering blade ; — 
Was Alp, the Adrain renegade ! 


(1) The life of the Turcomans is wandering and patriarchal: they dwellin tents. 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 41" 


IV. 


From Venice — once a race of worth 
His gentle sires — he drew his birth ; 
But late an exile from her shore, 
Against his countrymen he bore 

The arms they taught to bear; and now 
The turban girt his shaven brow. 
Through many a change had Corinth pass’d 
With Greece to Venice’ rule at last ; 
And here, before her walls, with those 
To Greece and Venice equal foes, 

He stood a foe, with all the zeal 

Which young and fiery converts feel, 
Within whose heated bosom throngs 
The memory of a thousand wrongs. 

To him had Venice ceased to be 

Her ancient civic boast — “ the Free; ” 
And in the palace of St. Mark 
Unnained accusers in the dark 

Within the “ Lion’s mouth” had placed 
A charge against him uneffaced : 

He fled in time, and saved his life, 

To waste his future years in strife, 

That taught his land how great her loss 
In him who triumph’d o’er the Cross, 
’Gainst which he rear’d the Crescent high, 
And battled to avenge or die. 


Me 


Coumourgi (*) —he whose closing scene 
Adorn’d the triumph of Eugene, 

When on Carlowitz’ bloody plain, 

The last and mightiest of the slain, 

He sank, regretting not to die, 

But cursed the Christian’s victory — 
Coumourgi — can his glory cease, 

That latest conqueror of Greece, 


(1) Ali Coumourgi, the favourite of three sultans, and Grand Vizier to Achmet 
III., after recovering Peloponnesus from the Venetians in one campaign, was mor- 
tally wounded in the next, against the Germans, at the battle of Peterwaradin, (in 
the plain of Carlowitz,) in Hungary, endeavouring to rally his guards. He died or 
his wounds next day. His last order was the decapitation of General Breuner, and 
some other German prisoners; and his last words, ‘‘ Oh that I could thus serve all 
the Christian dogs!” a speech and act not unlike one of Caligula, He was a young 
nan of great ambition and unbounded presumption: on being told that Prince Eu- 
zene, then opposed to him, ‘‘ was a great general,” he said, ‘I shall become a 
creater, and at his expense.” 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 


Till Christian hands to Greece restore 
The freedom Venice gave of yore? 

A hundred years have roll’d away 
Since he refix’d the Moslem’s sway, 
And now he led the Mussulman, 

And gave the guidance of the van: 

To Alp, who well repaid the trust 

By cities levell’d with the dust ; 

And proved, by many a deed of death, 
How firm his heart in novel faith. 


VI. 
The walls grew weak ; and fast and hot 
Against them pour’d the ceaseless shot, 
With unabating fury sent 
From battery to battlement ; 
And thunder-like the pealing din 
Rose from each heated culverin ; 
And here and there some crackling dome 
Was fired before the exploding bomb : 
And as the fabric sank beneath 
The shattering shell’s volcanic breath, . 
In red and wreathing columns flash’d 
The flame, as loud the ruin crash’d, 
Or into countless meteors driven, 
Its earth-stars melted into heaven ; 
Whose clouds that day grew doubly dun, 
Impervious to the hidden sun, 
With volumed smoke that slowly grew 
To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 


VII. 
But not for vengeance, long delay’d, 
Alone, did Alp, the renegade, 
The Moslem warriors sternly teach 
His skill to pierce the promised breach : 
Within these walls a maid was pent 
His hope would win without consent 
Of that inexorable sire, 
Whose heart refused him in its ire, 
When Alp, beneath his Christian name, 
Her virgin hand aspired to claim. 
In happier mood, and earlier time, 


- While unimpeach’d for traitorous crime, 


Gayest in gondola or hall, 
He glitter’d through the Carnival : 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 


And tuned the softest serenade 
That e’er on Adria’s waters play’d 
At midnight to Italian maid. 


Vill. 


And many deem’d her heart was won ; 
For sought by numbers, given to none, 
Had young Francesca’s hand remain’d 
Still by the church’s bonds unchain’d : 
And when the Adriatic bore 

Lanciotto to the Paynim shore, 

Her wonted smiles were seen to fail, 

And pensive wax’d the maid and pale ; 
More eonstant at confessional, 

More rare at masque and festival ; 

Or seen at such, with downcast eyes, 
Which conquer’d hearts they ceased to prize : 
With listless look she seems to gaze: 
With humbler care her form arrays ; 

Her voice less lively in the song ; 

Her step, though light, less fleet among 
The pairs, on whom the Morning’s glance 
Breaks, yet unsated with the dance. 


ΙΧ. 


Sent by the state to guard the land, 
(Which, wrested from the Moslem’s hand. 
While Sobieski tamed his pride 

By Buda’s wall and Danube’s side, 

The chiefs of Venice wrung away 

From Patra to Eubcea’s bay,) 

Minotti held in Corinth’s towers 

The Doge’s delegated powers, 

While yet the pitying eye of Peace 

Smiled o’er her long-forgotten Greece : 
And ere that faithless truce was broke 
Which freed her from the unchristian yoke, 
With him his gentle daughter came ; 

Nor there, since Menelaus’ dame 
Forsook her lord and land, to prove 

What woes await on lawless love, 

Had fairer form adorn’d the shore 

Than she, the matchless stranger, bore. 


419 


420 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 


x. 
The wail is rent, the ruins yawn ; 
And, with to-morrow’s earliest dawn, 
O’er the disjointed mass shall vault 
The foremost of the fierce assault. 
The bands are rank’d; the chosen van 
Of Tartar and of Mussulman, 
The full of hope, misnamed “ forlorn,” 
Who hold the thought of death in scorn, 
And win their way with falchion’s force, 
Or pave the path with many a corse, 
O’er which the following brave may rise, 
Their stepping-stone — the last who dies! 


παὶ 
"15 midnight: on the mountains brown 
‘Che cold, round moon shines deeply down: 
Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
Spreads like an ocean hung on high, 
Bespangled with those isles of light, 
So wildly, spiritually bright ; 
Who ever gazed upon them shining 
And turn’d to earth without repining, 
Nor wish’d for wings to flee away, 
And mix with their eternal ray ? 
The waves on either shore lay there 
Calm, clear, and azure as the air; 
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook, 
But murmur’d meekly as the brook. 
The winds were pillow’d on the waves ; 
The banners droop’d along their staves, 
And, as they fell around them furling, 
Above them shone the crescent curling ; 
And that deep silence was unbroke, 
Save where the watch his signal spoke, 
Save where the steed neigh’d oft and shrill, 
And echo answer’d from the hill, 
And the wide hum of that wild host 
Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, 
As rose the Muezzin’s voice in air 
In midnight call to wonted prayer ; 
It rose, that chanted mournful strain, 
Like some lone spirit’s o’er the plain : 
°T was musical, but sadly sweet, 
Such as when winds and harp-strings meet, 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 


And take a long unmeasured tone, 

To mortal minstrelsy unknown. 

It seem’d to those within the wall 

A cry prophetic of their fall ; 

It struck even the besieger’s ear 

With something ominous and drear, 

An undefined and sudden thrill, 

Which makes the heart a moment still, 
Then beat with quicker pulse, ashame« 
Of that strange sense its silence framed ; 
Such as a sudden passing-bell 

Wakes, though but for a stranger’s knell. 


XI. 
The tent of Alp was on the shore ; 


The sound was hush’d, the prayer was o’er ; 


The watch was set, the night-round made. 
All mandates issued and obey’d : 

T is but another anxious night, 

His pains the morrow may requite 
With all revenge and love can pay, 

in guerdon for their long delay. 

Few hours remain, and he hath need 
Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 

Of slaughter ; but within his soul 
The thoughts like troubled waters roll. 
He stood alone among the host ; 

Not his the loud fanatic boast 

To plant the crescent o’er the cross, 
Or risk a life with little loss, 

Secure in paradise to be 

By Houris loved immortally : 

Nor his, what burning patriots feel, 
The stern exaltedness of zeal, 
Profuse of blood, untired in toil, 
When battling on the parent soil. 

He stood alone —- a renegade 
Against the country he betray’d ; 

He stood alone amidst his band, 
Without a trusted heart or hand : 
They follow’d him, for he was brave, 
And great the spoil he got and gave ; 
They crouch’d to him, for he had skid 
To warp and wield the vulgar will : 
But still his Christian origin 

With them was little less than sin. 


421 


422 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 


They envied even the faithless fame 

He earn’d beneath a Moslem name ; 
Since he, their mightiest chief, had been 
In youth a bitter Nazarene. 

They did not know how pride can stoop, 
When baflled feelings withering droop ; 
They did not know how hate can burn 

In hearts once changed from soft to stern ; 
Nor all the false and fatal zeal 

The convert of revenge can feel. 

He ruled them — man may rule the worst, 
By ever daring to be first ; 

So lions o’er the jackal sway ; 

Lhe jackal points, he fells the prey, 

‘Then on the vulgar yelling press, 

To gorge the relics of success. 


XIII. 


' His head grows fever’d, and his pulse 


The quick successive throbs convulse ; 
In vain from side to side he throws 

His form, in courtship of repose ; 

Or if he dozed, a sound, a start 

Awoke him with a sunken heart. 

The turban on his hot brow press’d, 

The mail weigh’d lead-like on his breast, 
Though oft and long beneath its weight 
Upon his eyes had slumber sate, 
Without or couch or canopy, 

Except a rougher field and sky 

Than now might yield a warrior’s bed, 
Than now along the heaven was spread. 
He could not rest, he could not stay 
Within his tent to wait for day, 

But walk’d him forth along the sand, 
Where thousand sleepers strew’d the strand. 
What pillow’d them? and why should he 
More wakeful than the humblest be, 
Since more their peril, worse their toil ? 
And yet they fearless dream of spoil ; 
While he alone, where thousands pass’d 
A night of sleep, perchance their last, 

In sickly vigil wander’d on, 

And envied all he gazed upon. 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 423 


XIV. 

He felt his soul become more light 
Beneath the freshness of the night. 
Cool was the silent sky, though calm, 
And bathed his brow with airy balm: 
Behind, the camp — before him lay, 

In many a winding creek and bay, 
Lepanto’s gulf; and, on the brow 

Of Delphi’s hill, unshaken snow, 

High and eternal, such as shone 
Through thousand summers brightly gone, 
Along the gulf, the mount, the clime ; 
It will not melt, like man, to time : 
Tyrant and slave are swept away, 
Less form’d to wear before the ray ; 
But that white veil, the lightest, frailest, 
Which on the mighty mount thou hailest, 
While tower and tree are torn and rent, 
Shines o’er its craggy battlement ; 

In form a peak, in height a cloud, 

In texture like a hovering shroud, 
Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
As from her fond abode she fled, 

And linger’d on the spot, where long 
Her prophet spirit spake in song. 

Oh! still her step at moments falters 
O’er wither’d fields, and ruin’d altars, 
And fain would wake, in souls too broken, 
By pointing to each glorious token: 
‘But vain her voice, till better days 
Dawn in those yet remember’d rays. 
Which shone upon the Persian flying, 
And saw the Spartan smile in dying. 


XV. 
Not mindless of these mighty times 
Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes ; 
And through this night, as on he wander’d, 
And o’er the past and present ponder’d, 
And thought upon the glorious dead 
Who. there in better cause had bled, 
He felt how faint and feebly dim 
The fame that could accrue to him, 
Who cheer’d the band, and waved the sword, 
A traitor in a turban’d horde ; 


424 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH: 


And led them to the lawless siege, 
Whose best success were sacrilege. 

Not so had those his fancy number’d, 
The chiefs whose dust around him slumber’d 
Their phalanx marshall’d on the plain, 
Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 
They fell devoted, but undying ; 

The very gale their names seem’d sighing : 
The waters murmur’d of their name ; 
The woods were peopled with their fame ; 
The silent pillar, lone and gray, 

Claim’d kindred with their sacred clay ; 
Their spirits wrapp’d the dusky mountain, 
Their memory sparkled o’er the fountain ; 
The meanest rill, the mightiest river 
Roll’d mingling with their fame for ever. 
Despite of every yoke she bears, 

That land is glory’s still and theirs ! 

*T is still a watchword to the earth: 
When man would do a deed of worth 

He points to Greece, and turns to tread, 
So sanction’d, on the tyrant’s head : 

He looks to her, and rushes on 

Where life is lost, or freedom won. 


XVI. 


Still by the shore Alp mutely mused, 

And woo’d the freshness Night diffused. ; 
There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea, (’) 
Which changeless rolls eternally ; 

So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood, 
Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood ; 
And the powerless moon beholds them flow, 
Heedless if she come or go: 

Calm or high, in main or bay, 

On their course she hath no sway. 

The rock unworn its base doth bare, 

And looks o’er the surf, but it comes not there ; 
And the fringe of the foam may be seen below, 
On the line that it left long ages ago: 

A smooth short space of yellow sand 

Between it and the greener Jand. 


(1) The reader need hardly be reminded that there are no perceptible tides in the 
Mediterranean. 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 425 


He wander’d on, along the beach, 

Till within the range of a carbine’s reach 

Of the leaguer’d wall; but they saw him not, 

Or how could he ’scape from the hostile shot ? 

Did traitors lurk in the Christians’ hold? 

Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax’d cold ? 

I know not, in sooth; but from yonder wall 

There flash’d no fire, and there hiss’d no ball, 

Though he stood beneath the bastion’s frown, 

That flank’d the sea-ward gate of the town ; 

Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell 

The sullen words of the sentinel, 

As his measured step on the stone below 

Clank’d, as he paced it to and fro ; 

And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 

Hold o’er the dead their carnival, 

Gorging and growling o’er carcass and limb ; 

They were too busy to bark at him! 

From a Tartar’s skull they had stripp’d the flesh, 

As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ; 

And their white tusks crunch’d o’er the whiter skull, (’) 

As it slipp’d through their jaws, when their edge grew 
dull, 

As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, feds: 

When they scarce could rise from the spot where they 

So well had they broken a lingering fast 

With those who had fallen for that night’s repast. 

And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll’d on the sand, 

The foremost of these were the best of his band: 

Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear, 

And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair, () 

All the rest was shaven and bare. 

The scalps were in the wild dog’s maw, 

The hair was tangled round his jaw. 

But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf, 

There sat a vulture flapping a wolf, 

Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, 

Scared by the dogs, from the human prey ; 

But he seized on his share of a steed that lay, 

Pick’d by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 


{1) This spectacle I have seen, such as described, beneath the wall of the Serag- 
io at Constantinople, in the little cavities worn by the Bosphorus in the rock, a 
narrow terrace of which projects between the wall and the water. I think the fact 
is also mentioned in Hobhouse’s Travels. The bodies were probably those of some 
refractory Janizaries. 

_ (2) This tuft, or long lock, is left from a superstition that Mahomet will draw them 
into Paradise by it. 


426 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 


XVII. 


Alp turn’d hun from the sickening sight: 

Never had shaken his nerves in fight ; 

But he better could brook to behold the dying, 
Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 
Scorch’d with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain 
Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. 
There is something of pride in the perilous hour, 
Whate’er be the shape in which death may lower ; 


For Fame is there to say who bleeds, 


And Honour’s eye on daring deeds! 

But when all is past, it is humbling to tread 

O’er the weltering field of the tombless dead, 
And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air, 
Beasts of the forest, all gathering there ; 

All regarding man as their prey, 

All rejoicing in his decay. 


XVIII. 


There is a temple in ruin stands, 

Fashion’d by long forgotten hands ; 

Two or three columns, and many a stone, 
Marble and granite, with grass o ’ergrown ! 
Out upon Pinel ! at will leave no more 

Of ie things to come than the things before! 
Out upon Time |! ! who for ever will ‘leave 

But enough of the past for the future to grieve 
O’er that owhich hath been, and o’er that Seer must be : 
What we have seen, our sons shall see; 
Remnants of things that have pass’d away, 
Fragments of stone, rear’d by creatures of clay ! 


XIX. 


He sate him down at a pillar’s base, 
And pass’d his hand athwart his face ; 
Like one in dreary musing mood, 
Declining was his attitude ; 

His head was drooping on his breast, 
Fever’d, throbbing, and oppress’d ; 
And o’er his brow, so downward bent, 
Oft his beating fingers went, 
Hurriedly, as you may see 

Your own run over the ivory key, — 
Ere the measured tone is taken 

By the chords you would awaken. 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 42° 


There he sate all heavily, 

As he heard the night-wind sigh. 

Was it the wind, through some hollow stone, (*) 
Sent that soft and tender moan ? 

He lifted his head, and he look’d on the sea, 
But it was unrippled as glass may be ; 

He look’d on the long grass — it waved not a blade ; 
How was that gentle sound convey’d ? 

He look’d to the banners — each flag lay still, 
So did the leaves on Cithzeron’s hill, 

And he felt not a breath come over his cheek ; 
What did that sudden sound bespeak ? 

He turn’d to the left —is he sure of sight? 
There sate a lady, youthful and bright! 


XX. 


He started up with more of fear 

Than if an armed foe were near. 

“ God of my fathers! what is here? 
Who art thou, and wherefore sent 

So near a hostile armament ? ” 

His trembling hands refused to sign 
The cross he deem’d no more divine : 
He had resumed it in that hour, 

But conscience wrung away the power. 
He gazed, he saw: he knew the face 
Of beauty, and the form of grace ; 

It was Francesca by his side, 

The maid who might have been his bride ! 


The rose was yet upon her cheek, 

But mellow’d with a tenderer streak : 
Where was the play of her soft lips fled ? 
Gone was the smile that enliven’d their red. 
The ocean’s calm within their view, 

Beside her eye had less of blue: | 

But like that cold wave it stood still, 

And its glance, though clear, was chill : 


(1) [ must here acknowledge a close, though unintentional, resemblance in these 
twelve lines to a passage in an unpublished poem of Mr. Coleridge, called ** Christ- 
abel.” It was not till after these lines were written that 1 heard that wild and singu- 
larly origina] and beautiful poem recited ; and the MS. of that production I never 
saw till very recently, by the kindness of Mr. Coleridge himself, who, I hope, ts 
convinced that I have not been a wilful plagiarist. The original idea undoubtedly 
pertains to Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has been composed above fourteen years. 
Let me conclude by a hope that he will not longer delay the publication of a produc- 
tion, of which I can only add my mite of approbation to the applause of far more com- 
petent judges. 


428 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 


Around her form a thin robe twining, 

Nought conceal’d her bosom shining ; 
Through the parting of her hair, 

Floating darkly downward there, 

Her rounded arni show’d white and bare : 
And ere yet she made reply, 

Once she raised her hand on high ; 

It was so wan, and transparent of hue, 

You might have seen the moon shine through. 


po. 
“ T come from my rest to him I love best, 
That I may be happy, and he may be bless’d. 
I have pass’d the guards, the gate, the wall ; 
Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 
*T is said tne lion will turn and flee 
From a maid in the pride of her purity ; 
And the Power on high, that can shield the good 
Thus from the tyrant of the wood, 
Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well 
From the hands of the leaguering infidel. 
1 come — and if I come in vain, 
Never, oh never, we meet again ! 
Thou hast done a fearful deed 
In falling away from thy father’s creed: 
But dash that turban to earth, and sign 
The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine; 
Wring the black drop from thy heart, 
And to-morrow unites us no more to part.” 


“ And where should our bridal couch be spread ? 
In the midst of the dying and the dead ? 

For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and fame 
The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. 
None, save thou and thine, I ’ve sworn, 

Shall be left upon the morn: 

But thee will I bear to a lovely spot, 

Where our hands shall be join’d, and our sorrow forgot. 
There thou yet shalt be my bride, 

When once again I ’ve quell’d the pride 

Of Venice ; and her hated race 

Have felt the arm they would debase, 

Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those 

Whom vice and envy made my foes.” 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 429 


Upon his hand she laid her own — 

Light was the touch, but it thrill’d to the bone, 
And shot a chillness to his heart, 

Which fix’d him beyond the power to start. 
Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold, 

He could not loose him from its hold ; 

But never did clasp of one so dear 

Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, 

As those thin fingers, long and white, 

Froze through his blood by their touch that night. 
The feverish glow of his brow was gone, 

And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone, 
As he look’d on the face, and beheld its hue, 

So deeply changed from what he knew: 

Fair but faint — without the ray 

Of mind, that made each feature play 

Like sparkling waves ona sunny day ; 

And her motionless lips lay still as death, 

And her words came forth without her breath, 
And there rose not a heave o’er her bosom’s swell, 
And there seem’d not a pulse in her veins to dwell. 
Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix’d, 
And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix’d 
With aught of change, as the eyes may seem 

Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream ; 
Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 
Stirr’d by the breath of the wintry air, 

So seen by the dying lamp’s fitful light, 

Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight ; 

As they seem, through the dimness, about to come down 
From the shadowy wall where their images frown ; 
Fearfully flitting to and fro, 

As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 

“‘ If not for love of me be given 

Thus much, then, for the love of heaven, — 
Again I say — that turban tear 

From off thy faithless brow, and swear 

Thine injured country’s sons to spare, 

Or thou art lost; and never shalt see — 

Not earth — that ’s past — but heaven or me. 

If this thou dost accord, albeit 

A heavy doom ’t is thine to meet, 

‘That doom shall half absolve thy sin, 

And mercy’s gate may receive thee within : 

But pause one moment more, and take 

The curse of Him thou didst forsake ; 


439 ν᾽ THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 


And look once more to heaven, and see 
Its love for ever shut from thee. 

There is a light cloud by the moon — (’) 
’'T is passing, and will pass full soon — 
If, by the time its vapoury sail 

Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil, 

Thy heart within thee is not changed, 
Then God and man are both avenged ; 
Dark will thy doom be, darker still 
Thine immortality of ill.” 


Alp look’d to heaven, and saw on high 
The sign she spake of in the sky ; 

But his heart was swollen, and turn’d aside 
By deep interminaple pride. 

This first false passion of his breast 

Roll’d like a torrent o’er the rest. 

He sue for mercy! He dismay’d 

By wild words of a timid maid ! 

He, wrong’d by Venice, vow to save 

Her sons, devoted to the grave! 

No — though that cloud were thunder’s worst, 
And charged to crush him — let it burst! 


He look’d upon it earnestly, 

Without an accent of reply ; 

He watch’d it passing ; it is flown: 

Fuil on his eye the clear moon shone, 

And thus he spake — “ Whate’er my fate, 

1 am no changeling — ’t is too late : 

The reed in storms may bow and quiver, 
Then rise again; the tree must shiver. 
What Venice made me, 1 must be, 

Her foe in all, save love to thee : 

But thou art safe: oh, fly with me! ” 

He turn’d, but she is gone! 

Nothing is there but the column stone. 

Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air? 
He saw not, he knew not; but nothing is there. 


(1) [ have been told that the idea expressed in this and the five following lines has 
been admired by those whose approbation is valuable. I am glad of it ; but it is not 
original—at least not mine; it may be found much better expressed in pages 182-3-4 
of the English version of  Vathek,” (I forget the precise page of the French,) a 
work to which I have be‘ore referred ; and never recur to, or read, without a renewal 
of gratification, 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. | 43i 


XXII. 


The night is past, and shines the sun 

As if that morn were a jocund one. 

Lightly and brightly breaks away 

The Morning from her mantle gray, 

And the Noon will look on a sultry day. 

Hark to the trump, and the drum, 

And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, 

And the flay of the banners that flit as they’re borne, 

And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude’s hum, 

And the clash, and the shout, “ They come, they come!” 

The horsetails (7) are pluck’d from the ground, and the 
sword 

From its sheath; and they form, and but wait for the 
word. 

Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 

Strike your tents, and throng to the van; 

Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, 

That the fugitive may flee in vain, 

When he breaks from the town; and none escape, 

Aged or young, in the Christian shape ; 

While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, 

Bloodstain the breach through which they pass. 

The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein ; 

Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane ; 

White is the foam of their champ on the bit : 

The spears are uplifted; the matches are lit; 

The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar, 

And crush the wall they have crumbled before : 

Forms in his phalanx each Janizar ; 

Alp at their head ; his right arm is bare, 

So is the blade of his scimitar ; 

The khan and the pachas are all at their post ; 

The vizier himself at the head of the host. 

When the culverin’s signal is fired, then on; 

Leave not in Corinth a living one — 

A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, 

A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. 

God and the prophet — Alla Hu! 

Up to the skies with that wild halloo! 

‘* There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to scale ; 

And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye fail 1 

He who first downs with the red cross may crave 

His heart’s dearest wish; let him ask it, and have! ” 


(1) The horsetaiis, fixed upon a lance, a pacha’s standard. 


432 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 


Thus utter’d Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier ; 
The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear, 
And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire : 
Silence — hark to the signal — fire! 


XXIII. 
As the wolves, that headlong go 
On the stately buffalo, 
Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar, 
And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore, 
He tramples on earth, or tosses on high 
The foremost, who rush on his strength but to die: 
Thus against the wall they went, 
Thus the first were backward bent; 
Many a bosom, sheath’d in brass, 
Strew’d the earth like broken glass, 
Shiver’d by the shot, that tore 
The ground whereon they moved no more : 
Even as they fell, in files they lay, : 
Like the mower’s grass at the close of day, 
When his work is done on the levell’d plain; 
Such was the fall of the foremost slain. 


XXIV. 
As the spring-tides, with heavy plash, 
From the cliffs invading dash 
Huge fragments, sapp’d by the ceaseless flow, 
Till white and thundering down they go, 
Like the ayalanche’s snow 
On the Alpine vales below ; 
Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, 
Corinth’s sons were downward borne 
By the long and oft renew’d 
Charge of the Moslem multitude. 
In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell, 
Heap’d by the host of the infidel, : 
Hand to hand, and foot to foot: 


Nothing there, save death, was mute ; 


Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry 

For quarter, or for victory, 

Mingle there with the volleying thunder, 
Which makes the distant cities wonder 
How the sounding battle goes, 

If with them, or for their foes ; 

If they must mourn, or may rejoice 

In that annihilating voice, : 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 433 


Which pierces the deep hills through and through 
With an echo dread and new: 

You might have heard it, on that day, 

O’er Salamis and Megara ; 

(We have heard the hearers say,) 

Even unto Pireus’ bay. 


ΧΧν. 


From the point of encountering blades to the hilt, 
Sabres and swords with blood were gilt ; 

But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun, 
And all but the after carnage done. 

Shriller shrieks now mingling come 

From within the plunder’d dome : 

Hark to the haste of flying feet, 

That splash in the blood of the slippery street ; 
But here and there, were ’vantage ground 
Against use foe may still be found, 

Desperate groups, of twelve or ten, 

Make a pause, and turn again — 

With banded backs against the wall, 

Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 


There stood an old man — his hairs were white, 
But his veteran arm was full of might: 
So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, 
The dead before him, on that day, 
In a semicircle lay ; 
Still he combated unwounded, 
Though retreating, unsurrounded. 
Many a scar of former fight 
Lurk’d beneath his corslet bright ; 
But of every wound his body bore, 
Each and all had been ta’en before : 
Though aged, he was so iron of limb, 
Few of our youth could cope with him ; 
And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, 
Outnumber’d his thin hairs of silver gray. 
From right to left his sabre swept: 
Many an Othman mother wept 
Sons that were unborn, when dipp’d 
His weapon first in Moslem gore, 
Ere his years could count a score. 
Of all he might have been the sire 
Who fell that aay] beneath his ire : 

vol. 11.—F f 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 


For, sonless left long years ago, 

His wrath made many a childless ioe : 
And since the day, when in the strait ( 
His only boy had met his fate, 

His parent’s iron hand did doom 
More than a human hecatomb. 

If shades by carnage be appeased, 
Patroclus’ spirit less was pleased 
Than his, Minotti’s son, who died 
Where Asia’s bounds and ours divid« 
Buried he lay, where thousands before 


For thousands of years were inhumed on ihe Sites 


What of them is left, to tell 
Where they lie, and how they fej] ? 


Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves ° 
But they live in the verse that immortally saves. 


XXVI. 

Hark to the Allah shout! a band 

Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand: 
Their leader’s nervous arm is bare, 

Swifter to smite, and never to spare — 
Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on ; 
Thus in the fight is he ever known: 

Others a gaudier garb may show, 

To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe ; 

Many a hand’s on a richer hilt, 

But none on a steel more ruddily gilt ; 

Many a loftier turban may wear, — 

Alp is but known by the white arm bare ; 
Look through the thick of the fight, ’t is there ! 
There is not a standard on that shore 

So well advanced the ranks before ; 

There is not a banner in Moslem war 

Will lure the Delhis half so far ; 

It glances like a falling star! 

Where’er that mighty arm is seen, 

The bravest be, or late have been; 

There the craven cries for quarter 

Vainly to the vengeful Tartar ; 

Or the hero, silent lying, 

Scorns to yield a groan in dying ; 

Mustering his last feeble blow 

>Gainst the nearest levell’d foe, 


(1) In the naval battle, at the mouth of the Dardanelles between the 
and the Turks. 


VJ enetians 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 45% 


Though faint beneath the mutual wound, 
Grappling on the gory ground. 


XXVII. 

Still tae old man stood erect, 

And Alp’s career a moment check’d. 

* Yield thee, Minotti; quarter take, 

For thine own, thy daughter’s sake.” 

‘© Never, renegado, never ! 

Though the life of thy gift would last for ever.” 


« Francesca ! — Oh, my promised bride! 

Must she too perish by thy pride?” 

« She is safe.”? — ς Where? where?” — “ In heaven, 
From whence thy traitor soul is driven — 

Far from thee, and undefiled.” 

Grimly then Minotti smiled, 

As he saw Alp staggering bow 

Before his words, as with a blow. 


‘* Oh God! when died she 1 — “ Yesternight — 
Nor weep I for her spirit’s flight : 

None of my pure race shall be 

Slaves te Mahomet and thee — 

Come on! ᾽" — That challenge is in vain — 
Alp ’s already with the slain! 

While. Minotti’s words were wreaking 
More revenge in bitter speaking 

Than his falchion’s point had found, 

Had the time allow’d to wound, 

From within the neighbouring porch 

Ofa long defended church, 

Where the last and desperate few 

Would the failing fight renew, 

The sharp shot dash’d Alp to the ground ; 
Ere an eye could view the wound 

That crash’d through the brain of the infidel, 
Round he spun, and down he fell ; 

A flash like fire within his eyes 

Blazed, as he bent no more to rise, 

And then eternal darkness sunk 

Through all the palpitating trunk ; 

Nought of life left, save a quivering 

Where his limbs were slightly shivering : 
They turn’d him on his back ; his breast 
And brow were stain’d with gore ar.¢ dust, 


(ay) 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 


And through his lips the life-blood oozed, 
From its deep veins lately loosed ; 

But in his pulse there was no throb, 

Nor on his lips one dying sob ; 

Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 
Heralded his way to death: 

Ere his very thought could pray, 
Unaneled he pass’d away, 

Without a hope from mercy’s aid, — 

To the last —a Renegade. 


XXVIII. 


Fearfully the yell arose 
Of his followers, and his foes ; 
These in joy, in fury those : 
Then again in conflict mixing, 
Clashing swords, and spears transfixin: 
Interchanged the blow and thrust, 
Hurling warriors in the dust. 
Street by street, and foot by foot, 
Still Minotti dares dispute 
The latest portion of the land 
Left beneath his high command ; 
With him, aiding heart and hand, 
The remnant of his gallant band. 
Still the church is tenable, 
Whence issued late the fated ball 
That half avenged the city’s fall, 
When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell : 
Thither bending sternly back, 
They leave before a bloody track ; 
And, with their faces to the foe, 
Dealing wounds with every blow, 
The chief, and his retreating train, 
Join to those within the fane ; 
There they yet may breathe awhile, 
Shelter’d by the massy pile. 


XXIX. 


Brief breathing-time ! the turban’d host, 
With adding ranks and raging boast, 

Press onwards with such strength and heat, 
Their numbers balk their own retreat ; 

For narrow the way that led to the spot 
Where still the Christians yielded not ; 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 


And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 
Through the massy column to turn and fly ; 
They perforce must do or die. " 

‘They die; but ere their eyes could close, 
Avengers o’er their bodies rose ; 

Fresh and furious, fast they fill 

The ranks unthin’d, though slaughter’d still ; 
And faint the weary Christians wax 

Before the still renew’d attacks : 

And now the Othmans gain the gate ; 

Still resists its iron weight, 

And still, all deadly aim’d and hot, 

From every crevice comes the shot; 

From every shatter’d window pour 

The volleys of the sulphurous shower : 

But the portal wavering grows and weak — 
The iron yields, the hinges creak — 

It bends — it falls — and all is o’er; 

Lost Corinth may resist no more! 


XXX. 


Darkly, sternly, and all alone, 

Muinotti stood o’er the altar stone: 
Madonna’s face upon him shone, 

Painted in heavenly hues above, 

With eyes of light and looks of love ; 

And placed upon that holy shrine 

‘To fix our thoughts on things divine, 
When pictured there, we kneeling see 

Her, and the boy-God on her knee, 
Smiling sweetly on each prayer 

To heaven, as if to waft it there, 

Still she smiled ; even now she smiles, 
Though slaughter streams along her ais!es : 
Minotti lifted his aged eye, 

And made the sign of a cross with a sigh, 
Then seized a torch which blazed thereby ; 
And still he stood, while, with stee] aud flame, 
Inward and onward the Mussulman came. 


ΧΧΧΙ. 
The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 
Contain’d the dead of ages gone ; 
Their names were on the graven floor, 
But now illegible with gore ; 


437 


ivy 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 


The carved crests, and curious hues 

The varied marble’s veins diffuse, 

Were smear’d, and slippery — stain’d, and strown 
With broken swords, aud helms o’erthrown : 
‘There were dead above, and the dead below 
Lay cold in many a coffin’d row; 

You might see them piled in sable state, 

By a pale light through a gloomy grate ; 
But War had enter’d their dark caves, 

And stored along the vaulted graves 

Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 

In masses by the fleshless dead : 

Here, throughout the siege, had been 

The Christian’s chiefest magazine ; 

To these a late form’d train now led, 
Minotti’s last and stern resourve 

Against the foe’s o’erwhelming force. 


XXXII. 
The foe came on, and few remain 
To strive, and those must strive in vain : 
For lack of further lives, to slake 
The thirst of vengeance now awake, 
With barbarous blows they gash the dead, 
And lop the already lifeless head, 
And fell the statues from their niche, 
And spoil the shrines of offering rich, 
And from each other’s rude hands wrest 
The silver vessels saints had bless’d. 
To the high altar on they go ; 
Oh, but it made a glorious show! 
On its table still behold 
The cup of consecrated gold ; 
Massy and deep, a glittering prize, 
Brightly it sparkles to plunderers’ eyes : 
That morn it held the holy wine, 
Converted by Christ to his blood so divine, 
Which his worshippers drank at the break of day 
To shrive their souls ere they join’d in the ineys τὰ 
Still a few drops within it lay ; 
And round the sacred table glow 
Twelve Jofty lamps, in splendid row, 
From the purest metal cast : 
A spoil — the richest, and the last. 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 


XXXIII. 
So near they came, the nearest stretch’d 
‘To grasp the spoil he almost reach’d, 
When old Minotti’s hand 
Touch’d with the torch the train — 
Πα fired ! 
Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, 
The turban’d victors, the Christian band, 
All that of living or dead remain, 
Hurl’d on high with the shiver’d fane, 
In one wild roar expired ! 
The shatter’d town — the walls thrown down — 
‘The waves a moment backward bent — 
The hills that shake, although unrent, 
As if an earthquake pass’d — 
The thousand shapeless things all driven 
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, 
By that tremendous blast — 
Proclaim’d the desperate conflict o’er 
On that too long afflicted shore : 
Up to the sky like rockets go 
All that mingled there below : 
Many a tall and goodly man, 
Scorch’d and shrivell’d to a span, 
When he fell to earth again 
Like a cinder strew’d the plain: 
Down the ashes shower like rain ; 


Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkles 


With a thousand circling wrinkles ; 
Some fell on the shore, but, far away, 
Scatter’d o’er the isthmus lay ; 
Christian or Moslem, which be they ? 
Let their mothers see and say! 
When in cradled rest they lay, 

And each nursing mother smiled 

On the sweet sleep of her child, 
Little deem’d she such a day 

Would rend those tender limbs away. 
Not the matrons that them bore 
Could discern their offspring more ; 
That one moment left no trace 

More of human form or face 

Save ἃ scatter’d scalp or bone : 

And down came blazing rafters, strown 
Around, and many a falling stone, 


439 


440 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 


Deeply dinted in the clay, 

All blacken’d there and reeking lay. 

All the living things that heard 

That deadly earth-shock disappear’d : 

The wild birds flew; the wild dogs fled, 

And howling left the unburied dead ; 

The camels from their keepers broke ; 

The distant steer forsook the yoke — 

The nearer steed plunged o’er the plain, 

And burst his girth, and tore his rein ; 

The bull-frog’s note, from out the marsh, 

Deep-mouth’d arose, and doubly harsh ; 

The wolves yell’d on the cavern’d hill 

Where echo roll’d im thunder still ; 

The jackal’s troop, in gather’d cry, (*) 

Bay’d from afar complainingly, 

With a mix’d and mournful sound, 

Like crying babe, and beaten hound : 

With sudden wing, and ruffled breast, 

The eagle left his rocky nest, 

And mounted nearer to the sun, 

The clouds beneath him seem’d so dun ; 

Their smoke assail’d his startled beak, 

And made him higher soar and shriek — 
Thus was Corinth lost and won! 


(1) I believe I have taken a poetical license to transplant the jackal from Asia. 
in Greece I never saw nor heard these animals; but among the ruins of Ephesus ! 
have heard them by hundreds. They haunt ruins, and follow armies. 


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SCROPE BERDMORE DAVIES, ἘΞ. 
THE FOLLOWING POEM 
IS INSCRIBFD 
BY ONE WH HAS ONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS 


AND ΤΑΙ ΘΕ. His FRIENDSHIP, 


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ADVERTISEMENT. 


Tue following poem is grounded on a circumstance mentioned 
in Gibbon’s “ Antiquities of the House of Brunswick.” Iam 
aware, that in modern times the delicacy or fastidiousness of the 
reader may deem such subjects unfit for the purposes of poetry. 
The Greek dramatists, and some of the best of our old English 
writers, were of a different opinion: as Alfieri and Schiller have 
also been, more recently, upon the Continent. The following 
extract will explain the facts on which the storyis founded. ‘The 
name of 20 is substituted for Nicholas, as more metrical. 

“ Under the reign of Nicholas III. Ferra a was polluted with a 
domestic tragedy. By the testimony of an attendant, and his 
own observation, the Marquis of Este discovered the incestuous 
loves of his wife Parisina, and Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful 
and valiant youth. ‘They were beheaded in the castle by the 
sentence of a father and husband, who published his shame, and 
survived their execution. He was unfortunate, if they were guil- 
ty: if they were innocent, he was still more unfortunate ; nor 15 
there any possible situation in which I can sincerely approve the 
last act of justice of a parent.” — Gippon’s Miscellaneous Works, 
vol. ul. p. 470, new edition. 


ἡ ἀπ ‘a che oh voit rans δ 
i situa ‘tegreTtil, 5 σ᾽ pisw_ μειθῆτιν 


PARISINA. 


I. 


ΓΤ is the hour when from the boughs 
The nightingale’s high note is heard ; 
It is the hour when lovers’ vows 
Seem sweet in every whisper’d word ; 
And gentle winds, and waters near, 
Make music to the lonely ear. 
Each flower the dews have lightly wet, 
And in the sky the stars are met, 
And on the wave is deeper blue, 
And on the leaf a browner hue, 
And in the heaven that clear obscure, 
So softly dark, and darkly pure, 
Which follows the decline of day, 
As twilight melts beneath the moon away. (ἢ) 


Il. 


But it is not to list to the waterfall 

That Parisina leaves her hall, 

And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 

That the lady walks in the shadow of night ; 

And if she sits in Este’s bower, 

’T is not for the sake of its full-blown flower — 
She listens — but not for the nightingale — 
Though her ear expects as soft a tale. 

There glides a step through the foliage thick, 

And her cheek grows pale — and her heart beats quick. 
There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, 
And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves: 

A moment more — and they shall meet — 

Γ is past — her lover ’s at her feet. 


(1) The lines contained in this section were printed as set to music some time since ; 
but belonged to the poem where they now appear ; the greater part of which was com- 
posed prior to ‘ Lara,” and other compositions since published. 


448 PARISINA. 


III. 


And what unto them is the world beside, 
With all its change of time and tide? 
Its living things — its earth and sky — 
Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
And heedless as the dead are they 
Of aught around, above, beneath ; 
As if all else had pass’d away, 
They only for each other breathe ; 
Their very sighs are full of joy 
So deep, that did it not decay, 
That happy madness would destroy 
The hearts which feel its fiery sway : 
Of guilt, of peril, do they deem 
In that tumultuous tender dream ? 
Who that have felt that passion’s power, 
Or paused or fear’d in such an hour ? 
Or thought how brief such moments last ? 
But yet — they are already past ! 
Alas! we must awake before 
We know such vision comes no more. 


IV. 


With many a lingering look they leave 
The spot of guilty gladness past ; 
And though they hope, and vow, they grieve, 
As if that parting were the last. 
The frequent sigh — the long embrace — 
The lip that there would cling for ever, 
While gleams on Parisina’s face 
The Heaven she fears will not forgive her, 
As if each calmly conscious star 
Beheld her frailty from afar — 
The frequent sigh, the long embrace, 
Yet binds them to their trysting-place. 
But it must come, and they must part 
In fearful heaviness of heart, 
With all the deep and shuddering chill 
Which follows fast the deeds of ill. 


ν. 


And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed, 
To covet there another’s bride ; 
But she must lay her conscious head 

A husband’s trusting heart beside. 


PARISINA. ~ . | 449 


But fever’d in her sleep she seems, . 
Ana red her cheek with troubled dreams, 
_ And mutters she in her unrest 
A name she dare not breathe by day, 
And clasps her lord unto the breast 
Which pants for one away :- 
And he to that embrace awakes, 
And, happy in the thought, mistakes 
That dreaming sigh, and warm caress, 
For such as he was wont to bless 3 
And could in very fondness weep. 
O’er her who loves him even in sleep. 
VI. 

He clasp’d her sleeping to his heart, 
And listened to each broken word: 
He hears — Why doth Prince Azo start, 

As if the Archangel’s voice he heard ? 
And well he may — a deeper doom 
Could searcely thunder o’er his tomb, | 
When he shall wake to sleep no more, 
And stand the eternal throne before. 

And well he may — his earthly peace 
Upon that sound is doom’d to cease. 

That sleeping whisper of a name 
Bespeaks her guilt and Azo’s shame. 

And whose that name? that o’er his pillow 
Sounds fearful as the breaking billow, 
Which rolls the plank upon the shore, 

And dashes on the pointed rock 
The wretch who sinks to rise no more, — 

So came upon his soul the shock. 

And whose that name? ’t is Hugo’s, — his — 
In sooth he had not deem’d of this ! — 
’T is Hugo’s, —he, the child of one 
He loved — his own all-evil son — 
The offspring of his wayward youth, 
When he betray’d Bianca’s truth, 
The maid whose folly could confide 
_ In bim who made her not his bride. 


VII. 
He pluck’d his poniard in its sheath, 
But sheath’d it ere the point was bare — 
Howe’er unworthy. now to breathe, 
He could not slay a thing so fair — 
VOL. Ill.—G & 


᾿4δ6 


PARISINA. 


At least, not smiling — sleeping — there— 
Nay more : —he did not wake her then, 

But gazed upon her with a glance 

Which, had she roused her from her trance, 
Had frozen her sense to sleep again — 
And o’er his brow the burning lamp 
Gleam’d on the dew-drops big and damp. 
She spake no more — but still she slumber’d — 
While, in his thought, her days are number’d. 


Vill. . 
And with the morn he sought, and found, 
In many a tale from those around, 

The proof of all he fear’d to know, 
Their present guilt, his future woe ; 


The long-conntving damsels seek 


To save themselves, and would transfer 
The guilt — the shame — the doom — to her : 


- Concealment is no more — they speak 


All circumstance which may compel 
Full credence to the tale they tell: 
And Azo’s tortured heart and ear 
Have nothing more to feel or hear. 


Ix. 
He was not one who brook’d delay : 
Within the chamber of his state, 
The chief of Este’s ancient sway 
Upon his throne of judgment sate ; 
His nobles and his guards are there, — 
Before him is the sinful pair ; 
Both young — and one how passing fair ! 
With swordless belt, and fetter’d hand, 
Oh, Christ! that such a son should stand 
Before a father’s face! 
Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire, 
And hear the sentence of his ire, 
The tale of his disgrace! 
And yet he seems not overcome, 


Although, as yet, his voice be dumb. 


: x. 
And still, and pale, and silently 
Did Parisina wait her doom ;. 
How changed since last her speaking eye 
*Glanced gladness round the glittering room, 


PARISINA. 458 


Where high-born men were proud to wait — 
Where Beauty watch’d to imitate 

Her gentle voice — her lovely mien — 
And gather from her air and gait 

The graces of its queen : 
Then, — had her eye in sorrow wept, 
A thousand warriors forth had leapt, 
A thousand swords had sheathless shone, 
And made her quarrel all their own. 
Now, — what is she ?. and what are they ? 
Can she command, or these obey ? 
All silent and unheeding now, 
With downcast eyes and knitting brow, 
And tolded arms, and freezing air, 
And lips that scarce their scorn forbear, 
Her knights, and dames, her court — is there: 
And he, the chosen one, whose lance 
Had yet been couch’d before her glance, 
Who — were his arm a moment free — 
Had died or gain’d her liberty ; 
The minion of his father’s bride, — 
He, too, is fetter’d by her side ; 
Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim 
Less for her own despair than him : 
Those lids — o’er which the violet vein 
Wandering, leaves a tender stain, 
Shining through the smoothest white 
That e’er did softest kiss invite — 
Now seem’d with hot and livid glow 
To press, not shade, the orbs below ; 
Which glance so heavily, and fill, 
As tear on tear grows gathering still. 


ΧΙ. 


And he for her. had also wept, 

But for the eyes that on him gazed : 
His sorrow, if he felt it, slept ; 

Stern and erect his brow was raised. 
Whate’er the grief his soul avow’d, 
He would not shrink before the crowd ; 
But yet he dared not look on her: 
Remembrance of the hours that were — 
His guilt — his love — his present state — 
His father’s wrath — all good men’s hate — 
His earthly, his eternal fate — 


452 PARISINA. 


And hers, — oh, hers! —he dared not throw 
One look upon that deathlike brow ! 

Else had his rising heart betray’d 

Remorse for all the wreck it made. 


XII. 


And Azo spake : — “ But yesterday 
I gloried in a wife and son ; 
That dream this morning pass’d away ; 
Ere day declines, I shall have none. 
My life must linger on alone ; 
Well, — let that pass, — there breathes not one 
Who would not do as I have done: 
Those ties are broken — not by me ; 
Let that too pass ; — The doom’s prepares ' 
Hugo, the priest awaits on thee, 
And then — thy crime’s reward! 
Away! address thy prayers to Heaven, 
Before its evening stars are met — 
Learn if thou there canst be forgiven : 
Its mercy may absolve thee yet. 
But here, upon the earth beneath, 
There is no spot where thou and I 
Together, for an hour, could breathe : 
Farewell! I will not see thee die — 
But thou, frail thing! shalt view his head — 
Away! I cannot speak the rest: 
Go! woman of the wanton breast ; 
Not I, but thow his blood dost shed : 
- Go! if that sight thou canst outlive, 
And joy thee in the life I give.” 


XIII. 


And here stern Azo hid his face — 
For on his brow the swelling vein 
Throbb’d as if back upon his brain 
The hot blood ebb’d and flow’d agani . 

And therefore bow’d he for a space, 

And pass’d his shaking hand along 

His eye, to veil it from the throng ; 

While Hugo raised his chained hands, 

And for a brief delay demands 

His father’s ear: the silent sire 

Forbids not what his words require. 


PARISINA. 453 


“ It.is not that I dread the death — . 

For thou hast seen me by thy side 

All redly through the battle ride, 

And that not once a useless brand 

Thy slaves have wrested from my hand 

Hath shed more blood in cause of thine, 

Than e’er can stain the axe of mine : 
Thou gav’st, and may’st resume my breath, 

A gift for which I thank thee not; 

Nor are my mother’s wrongs forgot, 

Her slighted love and ruin’d name, 

Her offspring’s heritage of shame ; 

But she is in the grave, where he, 

Her son, thy rival, soon shall be. 

Her broken heart — my sever’d head — 

Shall witness for thee from the dead 

How trusty and how tender were 

Thy youthful love — paternal care. 

’T is true that I have done thee wrong -— 
But wrong for wrong : — this, deem’d thy bride, | 
The other victim of thy pride, 

Thou know’st for me was destined long. 
Thou-saw’st, and coveted’st her charms — 
And with thy very crime — my birth, . 
Thou taunted’st me — as little worth ; 

A match ignoble for her arms, 

Because, forsooth, I could not claim 

The lawful heirship of thy name, 

Nor sit on Este’s lineal throne : 

Yet, were a few short summers mine, 
My name should more than Este’s shine 

With honours all my own. |” 

{ had a sword —and have a breast 

That should have won as haught (’) a crest 

As ever wayed along the line 

Of all these sovereign sires of thine. 

Not always knightly spurs are worn 

The brightest by the better born; 

And mine have lanced my courser’s flank 

Before proud chiefs of princely rank, 

When charging to the cheering cry 

Of - Este and of Victory !’ 

[ will not plead the cause of crime, 

Nor sue thee to redeem from time 


(1) Haught—haughty— Away, haught man, thou art insulting me.” 
Shakspeare, Richard If. 


454 


PARISINA.. 


A few brief hours or days that must 
At length roll o’er my reckless dust ; — 
Such maddening moments as my past, 
They could not, and they did not, last. 
Albeit my birth and name be base, 
And thy nobility of race 
Disdain’d to deck a thing like me — 
Yet in my lineaments they trace 
Some features of my father’s face, 
And in my spirit —all of thee. 
From thee — this tamelessness of heart — . 
From thee — nay, wherefore dost thou start? ~- 
From thee in all their vigour came 
My arm of strength, my soul of flame — 
Thou didst not give me life alone, 
But all that made me more thine own. 
See what thy guilty love hath done! 
Repaid thee with too like a son! | 
I am no bastard in my soul, 
For that, like thine, abhorr’d control: 
And for my breath, that hasty boon 
Thou gav’st and wilt resume so soon, 
I valued it no more than thou, 
When rose thy casque above thy brow, 
And we, 2"! side by side, have striven, 
And o’er the dead our coursers driven: 
The past is nothing — and at last : 
The future can but be the past ; 
Yet would I that I then had died: 
For though thou work’dst my mother’s ill, 
And made thy own my destined bride, 
I feel thou art my father still ; 
And, harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 
*T is not unjust, although from thee. 
Begot in sin, to die in shame, 
My life begun and ends the same: " 
As err’d the sire, so err’d the son, 
And thou must punish both in one. 
My crime seems worst to human view, 
But God must judge between us too!” 


aie 


He ceased and stood with folded arms, 
On which the circling fetters sounded ; 
And not an ear but felt as wounded, 


PARISINA. 


_ Of all the chiefs that there were rank’d,. 


When those dull chains in meeting clank’d : 


Till Parisina’s fatal charms 
Again attracted every eye —- ' 
Would she thus hear hitn doom’d to die ! 
She stood, I said, all pale and still,. 
The living cause of Hugo’s ill : 
. Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide, 
Not once had turn’d to either side — 
Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, 
ΟΥ̓ snade the glance o’er which they rose, 
But round their orbs of deepest blue, - 
The circling white dilated grew — 
And there with glassy gaze she stood 
As ice were in her curdled blood ; 
But every now and then a tear » 

So large and ‘slowly gather’d slid 

From the long dark fringe of that fair lid, 
It was a thing to see, not hear! 
And those who saw, it did surprise, 
Such drops could fall from human eyes. 


To speak she thought — the imperfect note 


- Was choked within her swelling throat, 
Yet seem’d in that low hollow groan 
Her whole heart gushing in the tone. 

It ceased — again she thought to speak, 
Then burst her voice in-one long shriek, 
And to the earth she fell hke stone 

Or statue from its base o’erthrown, 
More like a thing that ne’er had life, — 
A monument of Azo’s wife, — 

Than her, that living guilty thing, 
Whose every passion was a sting, 
Which urged to guilt, but could not bear 
That guilt’s detection and despair. 

But yet she lived — and all too soon 
Recover’d from that death-like swoon — 
But scarce to reason — every sense 
Had been o’erstrung by pangs intense ; 
And each frail fibre of her brain 

(As bowstrings, when relax’d by rain, 
The erring arrow launch aside) 

Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide — 
The past a blank, the future black, 
With glimpses of a dreary track, 


455 


456 PARISINA.. 


Like lightning on the desert path, 

When midnight storms are mustering wrath. 
She fear’d — she felt that something ill 
Lay on her soul, so deep and chill — 

That there was sin and shame she knew ; 
That some one was to die—but who? ~ 
She had forgotten : — did she breathe ? 
Could this be still the earth beneath, 

The sky above, and men around ; 
Or were they fiends who now so frown’d 
On one, before whose eyes ‘each eye 

Till then had smiled in sympathy ? 

All was confused and undefined 

To her all-jarr’d and wandering mind ; 

A chaos of wild hopes and fears τ᾿ 

And now in laughter; now in tears, 

But madly still in each extreme, 

She strove with that convulsive dream ; 
For so it seem’d on her to break : 

Oh! vainly must she strive to wake! 


- XV. 


The Convent bells are ringing, 
But mournfully and slow ; 

In the gray square turret swinging, 
With a deep sound, to and fro. 
Heavily to the heart they go! 

Hark! the hymn is singing — 

The song for the dead below, 
Or the living who shortly shall be so! 

For a departing being’s soul - 

The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll : 

He is near his mortal goal ; 

Kneeling at the Friar’s knee : 

Sad to hear — and piteous to see — 

Kneeling on the bare cold ground, 

With the block before and the guards around — 

And the headman with his bare arm ready, 

That the blow may be both swift and steady, 

Feels if the axe be sharp and true — 

Since he set its edge anew : 

While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 

To see the Son fall by the doom of the Father ! 


PARISINA. 457 


: | ἘΠΕ 
ΟΠ is'a lovely hour as yet | 

Before the summer sun shall set, 
Which rose upon that heavy day, 
And mock’d it with his steadiest ray ; 
And his evening beams are shed 

Full on Hugo’s fated head, 
As his last confession pouring 
To the monk, his doom deploring 

In penitential holiness, 
He bends to hear his accents bless. 
With absolution such as may 

Wipe our mortal stains away. 
That high sun on his head did glisten 
As he there did bow and listen — 
_ And the rings of chesnut hair 

Curl’d half down his neck so bare ; 
But brighter still the beam was thrown 
Upon the axe which near him shone 
With a clear and ghastly glitter 
Oh! that parting hour was bitter ! 
Even. the stern stood chill’d with awe : 
Dark the crime, and just the law — 
Yet they shudder’d as they saw. 


XVII. 
The parting prayers are said and over, 
Of that false son — and daring lover ! 
His beads and sins are all recounted, 
His hours to their last minute mounted — 
His mantling cloak before was stripp’d, 
His bright brown locks must now be clipp’d ; 
’T is done — all closely are they shorn — 
The vest which till this moment worn — 
The scarf which Parisina gave — 
Must not adorn him to the grave. 
Even that must now be thrown aside, 
And o’er his eyes the kerchief tied ; 
But no — that last indignity 
Shall ne’er approach his haughty eye. 
All feelings seemingly subdued, 
In deep disdain were half renew’d, 
When headman’s hands prepared to bind 
Those eyes which would not brook such blind : 
As if they dared not look on death. 
“ No — yours my forfeit blood and breath — 


458 


PARISINA. 


These hands are chain’d — but let me die 
At least with an unshackled eye — 

‘Strike : ”? — and as the word he said, | 

Upon the block he bow’d his head ; 

These the last accents Hugo spoke : 

-ς Strike 7 — and flashing fell the stroke — . 
Roll’d'the head — and, gushing, sunk 


‘Back the stain’d and heaving tr unk, 


In the dust, which each deep vein 
Slaked with its ensanguined rain 5° 
His eyes-and lips a moment quiver, 
Cenvulsed and quick — then fix for ever. 
He died, as erring man should die, 
Without display, without parade ; 
Meekly had he bow’d and pray’d, 
As not disdaining priestly aid, 
Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
Arid while .before the Prior kneeling, 
His heart was wean’d from ee aad feeling : 
His wrathful sire — his paramour — 
What were they in such an hour ? 
No more reproach — no more despair ; 
No thought but heaven — no word but prayer — 
Save fie” ‘few which from him broke, 
When, bared to meet the headman’s stroke, 
He claim’d to die with eyes unbound, 
His sole adieu to those around. 


XVIII. 
Still as the lips that closed in death, 
Each gazer’s bosom held his breath : 
But yet, afar, from man to man, 
A cold electric shiver ran, 


‘As down the deadly blow descended 


On him whose life and love thus ended ; 

And, with a hushing sound compress’d, 

A sigh shrunk back on every breast ; 

But no more thrilling noise rose there, 
Beyond the blow that to the block 
Pierced through with forced and sullen shock. 

Save one : — what cleaves the silent air 

So madly shrill, so passing wild? 

That, as a mother’s o’er her child, 

Done to death by sudden blow, 

To the sky these accents go, 

Like a soul’s in endless woe. 


PARISINA. 459 


Through Azo’s palace-lattice driven, 
That horrid voice ascends to heaven, 
And every eye is turn’d thereon ; 
But sound and sight alike are gone! 
It was a woman’s shriek — and ne’er 
In madlier accents rose despair; 
And those who heard it, as it past, 

In mercy wish’d it were the last. 


XIX.: 


Hugo is fallen; and, from that hour, 

No more in palace, hall, or bower, 

Was Parisina heard or seen: 

Her name — as if she ne’er had been — 
Was banish’d from each lip and ear, 
Like words of wantonness or fear ; 

And from Prince Azo’s voice, by none 
Was mention heard of wife or son; 

No tomb — no memory had they ; 
Theirs was unconsecrated clay ; 

At least the knight’s who died that day 
But Parisina’s fate lies hid 

Like dust beneath the coffin lid : 
Whether in convent she abode, 

And won to heaven her dreary road, 

By blighted and remorseful years 

Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears ; 
Or if she fell by bowl or steel, 

_Hor that dark love she dared to feel ; 

Or if, upon the moment smote, 

She died by tortures less remote ; 

Like him she saw upon the block, 

With heart that shared the headman’s shock, 
In quicken’d brokenness that came, 

In pity, o’er her shatter’d frame, 

None knew — and none can ever know . 
But whatsoe’er its end below, 

Her life began and closed in woe! (*) 


(1) “ This turned out a calamitous year for the people of Ferrara, for there oc- 
curred a very tragical event in the court of their sovereign. Our annals, both printed 
and in manuscript, with the exception of the unpolished and negligent work of Sardi, 
and-one other, have given the following relation of it, from which, however, are re- 
jected many details, and especially the narrative of Bandelli, who wrote a century 
afterwards, and who does not accord with the contemporary historians. ἢ 

᾿ς By the above-mentioned Stella dell’ Assassmo, the Marquis, in the year 1405, 
nad a son called Ugo, a beautiful and ingenious youth. Parisina Malatesta, second 
wie of Niccolo, like the generality of step-mothers, treated him with little kindness, 


" 
460 3 PARISINA. 


REX. 


And Azo found another bride, 

And goodly sons grew by his side : 
But none so lovely and so brave 
As him who wither’d in the grave ; 


io the infinite regret of the Marquis, who regarded him with fond partiality. One 
day she asked leave of her husband io undertake a certain journey, to which he con- 
sented, but upon condition that Ugo should bear her company ; for he hoped by these 
means to induce her, in the end, to lay aside the obstinate aversion which she had 
conceived against him. And indeed his intent was accomplished but too well, since, 
during the journey, she not only divested herself of all her hatred, but fell into the 
opposite extreme. After their return, the Marquis had no longer any occasion to 
renew his former reproofs, It happened one day that a servant of the Marquis, 
named Zoese, or, as some call him, Giorgio, passing before the apartments of Pari- 
sina, Saw going out from them one of her chambermaids, all terrified and im tears. 
Asking the reason, she told him that her mistress, for some slight offence, had been 
beating her; and, ‘giving vent to her rage, she added, that she could easily be reveng- 
ed, if ‘she chose to make known the criminal familiarity which subsisted between 
Parisina and her stép-son. The servant took note of the words, and related them to 


; 


his master. He was astounded thereat, but scarcely believing ‘his ears, he assured . 


himself of the fact, alas! too clearly, on ‘the 18th of May, by looking through a hele 

made in the ceiling of his wife’s chamber. Instantly he broke into a furious rage, 
and arrested both of them, together with Aldobrandino Rangoni, of Modena, her gen- 
tleman, and also, as Some: say, two of the women of her chamber, as abettors of Win 
sinful act. He ordered them to be brought to a hasty trial, desiring the judges to 
pronounce sentence, in the accustomed !orms, upon the culprits. This sentence was 


death. Some there were that bestirred themselves in favour of the delinquents, and, 


among others, Ugoccion Contrario, who was all-powerful with Niccolo, and also his 
aged and mueh deserving minister Alberto dal Sale. Both of these, their tears flow- 
ing down their cheeks, and upon their knees, implored him for mercy : adducing 
whatever reasons they ‘could suggest for sparing the offenders, besides those motives 
of honour and decency which might persuade him to conceal from the public so scan- 
dalous a deed. But his rage made him inflexible, and, on the instant, he commanded 
that the sentence should be put in execution. 

“ ΤῈ was, then, in the prisons of the castle, and exactly in those frightful dungeons 
which are seen at this day beneath the chamber called the Aurora, at the foot of the 
Lion's tower, at the top of the street Giovecca, that on the night of the twenty-first 
of May were beheaded, first, Ugo, and afterwards Parisina. Zoese, he that accused 
her, conducted the latter under his arm to the place of punishment: She, all along, 
fancied that she was to be thrown into a pit, and asked at every step, whether she 
was yet come to the spot? She was told that her punishment was the axe. She 
inquired what was become of Ugo, and received for answer, that he was already 
dead; at the which, sighing grievously, she exclaimed, ‘ Now, then, I wish not 
myself to live ;? and, ‘being come to the block, she stripped herself with her own 
hands of all her ornaments, and wrapping a cloth around her head, submitted to the 
fatal stroke, which terminated the cruel scene. The same was done with Rangoni, 


who, together with the others, according to two calendars in the library of St. Fran- : 


cesco, was buried in the cemetery of that convent. Nothing else is known respect- 
ing the women. 

ἐς The Marquis kept watch the whole of that dreadful night, and, as he was walk- 
ing backwards and forwards, anaes of the captain of the castle if Ugo was dead 
yet 2 ὁ who answered him, Yes. He then gave himself up to the most desperate la- 
mentations, exclaiming, ‘ Oh! that I too were dead, since I have been hurried on to 
resolve thus against my own Ugo! And then, gnawing with his teeth a cane which 
he had in his hand, he passed the rest of the night in sighs and im tears, calling fre- 
quently upon his own dear Ugo, On the following day, calling to mind that it would 
be necessary to make public his justification, seemg that the “transaction could not 
be kept secret, he ordered the narrative to be drawn out upon paper, and sent ~~ all 
the courts of ‘Ttaly. 

“ On receiving this advice, the Doge of Venice, Francesco Foscari, gave crtes, 


FARISINA. 461 


ΟΥ̓ if they were--— on his cold eye 
Their growth but glanced unheeded by, 
Or noticed with a smother’d sigh. ὁ 
But never tear his cheek descended, 
And never smile his brow unbended ; 
And o’er that fair broad brow were wrought 
The intersected lines of thought ; 
Those furrows which the burning share 
Of Sorrow ploughs untimely there ; 
Scars of the lacerating mind 
Which the Soul’s war doth leave behind. 
He was past all mirth or woe: 
Nothing more remain’d below 
But sleepless nights and heavy days, 
A mind all dead to scorn or praise, 
A heart which shunn’d itself — and yet 
That would not yield —nor could forget, 
Which, when it least appear’d to melt, 
Intensely thought — intensely felt : 
The deepest ice which ever froze 
Can only o’er the surface close — 
The living stream lies quick below, 
And flows — and cannot cease to flow. 
Still was his seal’d-up bosom haunted 
By thoughts which Nature hath implanted ; 
Too deeply rooted thence to vanish, 
Howe’er our stifled tears we banish ; 
When, struggling as they rise to start, 
We check those waters of the heart, 
They are not dried — those tears unshed 
But flow back to the fountain head, 
And resting in their spring more pure, 
For ever in its depth endure, 
Unseen, unwept, but uncongeal’d, 
And cherish’d most where least reveal’d. 


but without publishing his reasons, that stop-should be put to the preparations for a 
tournament, which, under the auspices of the Marquis, and at the expense of the city 
of Padua, was about to take place, in the square of St. Mark, in order to celebrate 
his advancement to the ducal chair. 

“ The Marquis, in addition to what he had already done, from some unaccount- 
able burst of yengeance, commanded that as many of the married women as were well 
known to him to be faithless, like his Parisina, should, like her, be beheaded. Amongst 
others, Barberina, or, as some call her, Laodamia Romei, wife of the court judge, 
~ anderwent this sentence, at the usual place of execution, that is to say, in the quarter 
of St. Giacomo, opposite the present fortress, beyond St. Paul’s. It cannot be told 
how strange appeared this proceeding in a prince, who, considering his own disposi- 
tion, should, as it seemed, have been im such cases most indulgent. Some, however, 
there were, who did not fail to commend him.” * 


* Frizzi—History of Ferrara. 


462 


PARISINA. 


With inward starts of feeling left, 
To throb o’er those of life bereft : 
Without the power to fill again 
The desert gap which made his pain ; 
Without the hope to meet them where 
United souls shall gladness share, 
With all the. consciousness that he 
Had only pass’d a just decree ; 
That they had wrought their doom of ill; - 
Azo’s age was wretched still. 
The tainted branches of the tree, 
If lopp’d with care, a strength may give, 
By which the rest shall bloom and live 
All greenly fresh and wildly free: 
But if the lightning, in its wrath, 
The waving boughs with fury scathe, 
The massy trunk the ruin feels, 
And never more a leaf reveals. 


᾿ THE 
PRISONER OF CHILLON, 


A FABLE, 


! 
νυ ale tel 


SONNET OF CHILLON. 


— 
fy 


ETERNAL Spirit of the chainless Mind k saad 2'~ 
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou artg ( 
For there thy habitation is the hea 

‘The heart which love of thee alone can bind; ἣν, 

And when thy sons to fetters are consign’d ~— ᾿ 
To fetters, and the damp vault’s dayless gloomy ~~ 


. Their country conquers with their Le oe 


And Freedom’s fame finds wings on every wind. 
Chillon! thy prison is a holy places 
And thy sad floor an altar — for ’t was trod, 
Until his very steps have left a trace 
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
By Bonnivard ! (*) — May none those marks eflace ! , 
For they appeal from tyranny to God. 


(1) Frangois de Bonnivard, fils de Louis de Bonnivard, originaire de Seyssei et 
Seigneur de Lunes, naquit en 1496; il fitses études ἃ Turin: en 1510 Jean Aimé 
4¢ Bonnivard, son oncle, lui résigna le Prieuré de St. Victor, qui aboutissoit aux 
cnurs de Genéve, et qui formoit un bénéfice considérable. 

Ce grand homme (Bonnivard mérite ce titre par la force de son ame, la droiture 
16 son ceeur, la noblesse de ses intentgns, la sagesse de ses conseils, le courage de 
ses démarches, l’étendue de ses connaissances et la vivacité de son esprit,) ce crand 
homme, qui exciteral’admiration de tous ceux qu’une vertu héroique peut encore 
€mouvoir, inspirera encore la plus vive reconnaissance dans les cceurs des Génévois 
qui aiment Genéve. Bonnivard en fut toujours un des plus fermes appuis: pour as- 
surer la hberté de notre République, il ne craignit pas de perdre souvent la sienne ; 
il oublia son repos; il méprisa ses richesses; il ne négligea rien pour affermir le 
bonheur d’une patrie qu’il honora de son choix: dés ce moment illa chérit comme !e 
plue zélé de ses citoyens ; illa servit avec l’intrépidité d’un héros, et il éerivit son 
Histoire avec la naiveté d’un philosophe et la chaleur d’un patriote. 

ΤΙ dit dans le commencement de son Histoire de Genéve, que, dis qwil eut com- 
mencé de lire Vhistoire des nations, il se sentit entrainé par son gotit pour les Répud- 
liques, dont il épousa toujours les intéréts: c’est ce golt pour la liberté que lui fit sans 
doute adopter Genéve pour sa patrie. 

Bonnivard, encore jeune, s’annonca hautement comme le défenseur de Genéve 
contre le Duc de Savoye et ’Evéque. 

En 1519, Bonnivard devient le martyr de sa patrie: Le Duc de Savoye étant 
entré dans Genéve avec cing cent hommes, Bonnivard craint le ressentiment du 
Duc ; il voulut se retirer ἃ Fribourg pour en éviter les suites; mais il fut trahi par 
deux hommes qui l’accompagnoient, et conduit par ordre du Prince ἃ Grolée ot i] 
resta prisonnier pendant deux ans. Bownivard étoit malheureux dans ses voyages: 
comme ses malheurs n’avoient point ralenti son zéle pour Genéve, il étoit toujours un 
ennemi redoutable pour ceux quila menacoient, et par conséquent il devoit étre ex~ 
posé ἃ leurs coups. II fut rencontré en 1530 sur le Jura par des voleurs, qui le dé- 
pouillérent, et qui le mirent encore entre les mains du Duc de Savoye: ce Prince ἰδ 
fit enfermer dans le Chateau de Chuillon, οἱ il resta sans étre interrogé jusques en 
1536 ; il fut alors delivré par les Bernois, qui s’emparérent du Pays de Vaud. 

Bonnivard, en sortant de sa captivité, eut le plaisir de trouver Genéve libre et ré- 


VOL. 111.—H ἢ 


400 


tormée; la République s’empressa de lui témoigner 58. reconnaissance et dele ἐό- 
dommager des maux qu’il avoit soufferts ; elle 16 regut Bourgeois de ja ville au mois 
de Juin 1536; elle lui donna la maison habitée autrefois par le Vicaire-Général, et 
elle lui assigna une pension de 200 écus d’or tant qu’il séjourncroit a Genéve, 1] fut 
admis dans le Conseil de Deux-Cent en 1537. 

Bonnivard n’a pas fini d’étre utile : appres avoir travaillé ἃ rendre Genéve libre, 
il réussit ἃ larendre tolérante. Bonnivard engagea le Conseil ἃ accorder aux Ec- 
clésiastiques et aux paysans un tems suffisant pour examiner les propositions qu’on 
ieur faisoit; il réussit par sa douceur: on préche toujours le Christianisme avec 
succés quand on le préche avee charité. 

Bonnivard fut savant; ses manuscrits, qui sont dans la Bibliothéque publique, 
prouvent qu’il avoit bien lu les auteurs classiques Latins, et qu'il avoit approfondi la 
théologie et histoire. Ce grand homme aimcit les sciences, et il croyoit qu’elles 
pouvoient faire la gloire de Genéve ; aussi il ne négligea rien pour les fixer dans cette 
ville naissante ; en 1651 il donna sa bibliothéque au public; elle fut le commencement 
de notre bibliothéque publique ;_et ces livres sont en partie les rares et belles éditions 
du quinziéme siécle qu’on oe dans notre collection. Enfin, pendant la méme année, 
ce bon patriote institua la République son hériti¢re, ἃ condition qu’elle employeroit 
ses biens ἃ entretenir le coliége dont on projettoit la fondation. 

I] paroit que Bonnivard mourut en 1570; mais on ne peut!’assurer, parce qu'il y a 
une lacune dans le Nécrologe depuis le mois de Juillet, 1570, jusques en 1571. 


> 


THE 


PRISONER OF CHILLON 


I. 
My hair is gray, but not with years, 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night, (*) 

As men’s have grown from sudden fears : 
My limbs are bow’d, though not with toil, 
But rusted with a vile repose, “wea 

For they have been a dungeon’s spoil, 
And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are bann’d, and barr’d — forbidden fare ; 
But this was for my father’s faith 
1 suffer’d chains and courted death ; 
That father perish’d at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; ὁ ji 
And for the same Med as 
In darkness found a dwelling-place ; 
We were seven — who now are one, 
Six in youth and one in age, 
Finish’d as they had begun, 
Proud of Persecution’s rage ; 
One in fire, and two in field, 
Their belief with blood have seal’d . 
Dying as their father died, 
For the God their foes denied ; — 
Three were in a dungeon cast, 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 


(1). Ludovico Sforza, and others.—The same is asserted of Marie Antomette’s 
the wife of Louis XVI. though not in quite so short a period. Grief is said to have 
the same effect : to such, and not to fear, this change in hers was to be attributed. 


ΟΣ 


ΠΝ 


THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 


110. ν 


There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, 
In Chillon’s dungeons deep and old, 


There are seven columns massy and gray, 


Pim with a dull imprison’d ray, 

A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 

And through the crevice and the cleft 

OF the thick wall is fallen and left : 
joreepg o’er the floor so damp, 

Luke a marsh’s meteor lamp: 

And in each pular there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cankering thing, 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away, 
Till I have done with this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o’er, 
I jost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother droop’d and died 
And I lay living by his side. 

——— 
x 
Ill. 
They chain’d us each to a column stone, 
And we were three — yet, each alone ; 
We couid not move a single pace, 
We could not see each other’s face, 
But with that pale and Jivid light 
[That made us strangers in our sight : 
And thus togetheys: γεῖραρδνι, 
Fetter’d in hand, but pined in heart ; 
’T was still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth, 
To hearken to each other’s speech, 
And each turn comforter to each 
With some new hope, or legend old, 
Or song heroically bold ; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free 

As they of yore were wont to be; 

It might be fancy — but to me 
They never sounded hike our owu 


THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 458 
> 
IV 
I was the eldest of the three, 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 

I ought to do — and did my best — 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved, 
Because our mother’s brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, 

For him my soul was sorely moved : 
And truly might it be distress’d 
To see such bird in such a nest; | 

/ For he was beautiful as day — 
When day was beautiful to me 

As to young eagles being free) — 

A polar day, which will not see | 
A sunset till its summer ’s gone, 

Its sleepless summer of long light, 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun: 

‘And thus he was as pure and bright, 
‘And in his natural spirit gay, 
With tears for nought but others’ ills, 
And then they MUR oe rills, 
Unless he could a§Su e€ woe 
Which he abhorr’d to view below. 

v. 

The other was as pure of mind, 
But form’d to combat with his kind; 
| Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which ’gainst the world in war had stood, 
\And perish’d in the foremost rank 

With joy : — but not in chains to pine : 
His spint wither’d with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so perchance in sooth did mine : 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
te was a hunter of the hills, 

Had follow’d there the deer and wolf; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf, 

_ And fetter’d feet the worst of ills. 


VI. 

Lake Leman lies by Chillon’s walls : 
ἃ thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 


4790 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 


~ Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillon’s snow-white battlement, (7) 
Which round about the wave inthrals : 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave. 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay, 
We heard it ripple night and day ; 
Sounding o’er our heads it knock’d; 
And I have felt the winter’s spray 
Wash through the bars when winds were high 
And wanton in the happy sky ; 
And then the very rock hath rock’d, 
And I have felt it shake, unshock’d, ὶ 
ΒΕ Because ἔ could have smiled to see 
; ‘The death that would have set me free. 


Vil. 


I said my nearer brother pined, 

I said his mighty heart declined, 

He loathed and put away his*food ; 

It was not that ’t was coarse sh rude, 
For we were used to hunter’s fare, 

And for the like had little care : 

The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat, 
{Our bread was such as captive’s tears 
Have moisten’d many a thousand years, 
‘Since man first pent his fellow men 
ita brutes within an iron den; 

But what were these to us or him? 
These wasted not his heart or limb, 


(1) The Chateau de Chillon is situated between Clarens and Villeneuve, waich 
last is at one extremity of the Lake of Geneva. On its left are the entrances of the 
Rhone, and opposite are the heights of Meillerie and the range of Alps above Boveret 
and St. Gingo. 

Near it, on a hill behind, is a torrent: below it, washing its walls, the*lake has 
been fathomed to the depth of 800 feet, French measure: within it are a range of 
dungeons, in which the early reformers, and subsequently prisoners of state, were con- 
fined. Across one of the vaults is a beam black with age, on which we were informed 
that the condemned were formerly executed. In the cells are seven pillars, or, 
rather, eight, one being half merged in the wail; in some of these are rings for the 
fetters and the fettered: τὴ the pavement the steps of Bonnivard have left their traces 
—he was confined here several years. 

It is by this castle that Rousseau has fixed the catastrophe of his Héloise, tn the 
rescue of one of her children by Julie from the water ; the shock of which, and the 
illness produced by the immersion, is the cause of her death. 

sees chateau is large, and seen along the lake for a great distance. The walls are 
white. 


THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 


My brother’s soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 

Had his free breathing been denied 

The range of the steep mountain’s side ; 
But why delay the truth ? —he died. 

T saw, and could not hold his head, 

Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, — 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died — and they unlock’d his chain, 
And scoop’d for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 

I bege’d them, as a boon, to lay 

His corse in dust whereon the day 

Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
But then within my brain it wrought, 
That even in death his freeborn breast 

In such a dungeon could not rest. 

I might have spared my idle prayer — 
They coldly laugh’d — and laid him there : 
The flat and turfless earth above 

The bemg we so much did love ; 

His empty chain above it leant, 

Such murdev’s fitting monument ! Ἂν 


But he, the favourite and the flower, 
Most cherish’d since his natal hour, 
His mother’s image in fair face, 
The infant love of all his race, 
His martyr’d father’s dearest thought, 
My latest care, for whom I sought 
To hoard my life, that his might be 
Less wretched now, and one day free : 
He, too, who yet had held untired 
A spirit natural or inspired — 
He, too, was struck, and day by day 
Was wither’d on the stalk away. 

h, God! it is a fearful thing 

o see the human soul take wing 
In any shape, in any mood : — 
I ’ve seen it rushing forth in blood, 
I ’ve seen it on the breaking ocean 
Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 


Vili. 


ΑΤΩ THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 


I ’ve seen the sick and ghastly bed 
Of Sin delirious with its dread : 
But these were horrors — this was woe 
Unmix’d with such — but sure and slow: 
i He faded, and so calm and meek, 
So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 
So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 
And grieved for those he left behind ; 
With all the while a cheek whose bloomy 
Was as a mockery of the tomb, 
Whose tints as gently sunk away | 
As a departing rainbow’s ray — | 
An eye of most transparent light, 
That almost made the dungeon bright, | 
And not a word of murmur — not 
A groan o’er his untimely lot, — 
A little talk of better days, 
A little hope my own to raise, 
For I was sunk in silence — lost 
In this last loss, of all the most ; 
And then the sighs he would suppress 
Of fainting nature’s feebleness, 
More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 
I listen’d, but I could not hear — 
I call’d, for I was wild with fear ; 
I knew ’t was hopeless, but my dread 
Would not be thus admonished ; 
f cali’d, and thought | heard a sound — 
I burst my chain with one strong bound, 
And rush’d to him : — I found him not, 
fonly stirr’d in this black spot, 
only lived — ἰ only drew 
The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 
The last — the sole — the dearest link 
Between me and the eternal brink, 
Which bound me to my failing race, 
Was broken in this fatal place. 
One on the earth, and one beneath — 
My brothers — both had ceased to breathe : 
I took that hand which lay so still, 
Alas! my own was full as chill ; 
I had not strength to stir, or strive, 
But felt that 1 was still alive — 
A frantic feeling, when we know 
That what we love shall ne’er be so. 


‘ai 


Se 


THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 


I know not why 
I could not die, 


_ Thad no earthly hope —but faith, 7 
_ And that forbade a selfish death. 


wr 


ΙΧ. 


What next befell me then and there 
I know not well — I never knew — 
First came the loss of light, and air, 
And then of darkness too: 
I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
Among the stones I stood a stone, 
And. was, scarce conscious what I wist, ι 
As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and gray, 
It was not night — it was not day, 
It was not even the dungeon-light, 
So hateful to my heavy sight, 
But vacancy absorbing space, 
And fixedness — without a place ; 
There were no stars —no earth — no time — 
No check — no change — no good — no crime — 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death ; 
A sea of stagnant idleness, 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! =p 


xX. 


A light broke in upon my brain, — 
It was the carol of a bird ; 
It ceased, and then it came again, 
The sweetest song ear ever heard, 
And mine was thankful till my eyes 
Ran over with the glad surprise, 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery ; 
But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track, 
§ saw the dungeon walls and floor 
Close slowly round me as before, 
I saw the glimmer of the sun 
Creeping as it before had done, 
But through the crevice where it came 
That bird was perch’d, as fond and tame. 


473 


414 


THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 


/~ And tamer than upon the tree ; 
A lovely bird, with azure wings, 
And song that said a thousand things, 
And seem’d to say them all for me! 
I never saw its like before, 
I ne’er shall see its likeness more : 
It seem’d like me to want a mate, 
But was not half so desolate, 
And it was come to love me when 
None lived to love me so again, 
And cheering from my dungeon’s brink, 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free, 
Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 
But knowing well captivity, 
Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine ! 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 
For — Heaven forgive that thought! the while 
Which made me both to weep and smile ; 
I sometimes deem’d that it might be 
My brother’s soul come down to me; 
But then at last away it flew, 
And then ’t was mortal — well I knew, 
For he would never thus have flown, 
And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
Lone — as the corse within its shrofd, 
Lone — as a solitary cloud, 
A single cloud on a sunny day, 
While all the rest of heaven is clear 
A frown upon the atmosphere, 
That hath no business to appear 
When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 


x 

Kile 
A kind of change came in my fate, 
My keepers grew compassionate ; 
I know not what had made them so, 
They were inured to sights of woe, 
But so it was : — my broken chain 
With links unfasten’d did remain, 
And it was liberty to stride 
Along my cell from side to side, 
And up and down, and then athwart, 
And tread it over every part ; 


Qe 


THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. a 


And round the pillars one by one, 
Returning where my walk begun, 
Avoiding only, as I trod, 

My brothers’ graves without a sod ; 

For if I thought with heedless tread 

My step profaned their lowly bed, 

My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
And my crush’d heart fell blind and sick. 


XII. 


I made a footing in the wall, 
It was not therefrom to escape, 


For I had buried one and all / ¥ Δὶς " 

.,... Who loved me in a human shape ; . Magy’ ak 

uv \ And the whole earth would henceforth be Cages ee a 
A wider prison unto me : 


No child — no sire — no kin had I, 

No partner in my misery ; 

I thought of this, and I was glad, 

For thought of them had made me mad ; 
But I was curious to ascend 

To my barr’d windows, and to bend 
Once more, upon the mountains high, 
The quiet of a loving eye. 


Ill. 


I saw them — and they were the same, 
They were not changed like me in frame ; 
I saw their thousand years of snow 

On high — their wide long lake below, 
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow : 

I heard the torrents leap and gush 

O’er channell’d rock and broken bush ; 

I saw the white-wall’d distant town, Ἢ 
And whiter sails go skimming down ; 

And then there was a little isle, (’) 

Which in my very face did smile, 


(1) Between the entrances of the Rhone and Villeneuve, not far from Chuillon, is a 
very small island; the only one I could perceive, in my voyage round and over the 
lake, within its circumference. It contains a few trees, (i think not above’ three,} 
and from its singleness and diminutive size has a peculiar effect upon the view. 

When the foregoing poem was composed I was not sufficiently aware of the his- 
tory of Bonnivard, or I should have endeavoured to dignify the subject by an attempt 
to celebrate his courage and his virtues. Some account of his life will be found m a 
note appended to the ‘‘ Sonnet on Chillon,” with which I have been furnished by 
the kindness of a citizen of that Republic, which is still proud of the memory of a 
man worthy of the best age of ancient freedom. J 


$75 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 


The only one in view; 
A small green isle, it seem’d no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 
But in it there were three tall trees, 
And o’er it blew the mountain breeze, 
And by it there were waters flowing, 


And on it there were young flowers growing, 


Of gentle breath and hue. 

The fish swam by the castle wali, 
And they seem’d joyous each and all; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 

f As then to me he seem’d to fly, 

* . And then new tears came in my eye, 
MN * And I felt troubled —and would fain 

I had not left my recent chain ; 
And when I did descead again, 
The darkness of my dim abode 
Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
It was as is a new-dug grave, 
Closing o’er one we sought to save, — 
And yet my glance, too much oppress’d, 
Had almost need of such a rest. 


XIV. 

it might be months, or years, or days, 

I kept no count —I took no note, 
I had no hope my eyes to raise, 

And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
At last men came to set me free, 

I ask’d not why, and reck’d not where, 
It was-at.length the same to me, 
Fetter’d or fetterless to be, 


nee Binaries 
And thus when they appear’d at last, 


And all my bonds aside were cast, 
‘These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own! 

And half I felt as they were come 

To tear me from a second home : 
With spiders I had friendship made, 
And watch’d them in their sullen trade, 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play, 
And why should I feel less than they ? 
We were all! inmates of one place, 
And I, the monarch of each race, 


THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 477 


Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell! 
In quiet we had learn’d to dwell — 
~~ My very chains and I grew friends, 
g So much a long communion tends 
“ΤῸ make us what we are : — even J 
- Regain’d my freedom with a sigh. 


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> ; ' A VENETIAN STORY. 
, | "νὸς wh el er οἷ 


Rosalind, Farewe:., wicasieur Pravelier: Look, you lisp, and wear strange 
suits: disable all the benefits uf your own Couniry ; be out of love with your Nativity, 
and almost chide God for making you shut countenance you are; or I will scarce 


think that you have swam ina Goreaoea. 
As You Like It, Act IV. Sc. 1. 


Annotation of the Commentators. 


That is, been at Venice, which was muci visited by the young English gentlemen 
of those times, and was then what Paris is now — the seat of all dissoluteness. S. A 


ΠΡ, 


1. 


”T 1s known, at least it should be, that throughout 
All countries of the Catholic persuasion, 

Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes about, 
The people take their fill of recreation, 

And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, 
However high their rank, or low their station, 

With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, masquing, 

And other things which may be had for asking. 


Il, 


The moment night with dusky mantle covers 
The skies (and the more duskily the better), 
The time less liked by husbands than by lovers- 
Begins, and prudery flings aside her fetter ; 
And gayety on restless tiptoe hovers, 
Gigeling with all the gallants who beset her ; 
And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming 
Guitars, and every other sort of strumming. 


III. 


And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical, 
Masks of all times nd nations, Turks and Jews, 
And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastical, 
Greeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos ; 
All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical, 
All people, as their fancies hit, may choose, 
But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy, — 
Therefore take heed, ye Freethinkers! I charge ye. 


Iv. 


You ’d better walk about begirt with briars, 
Instead of coat and small-clothes, than put on 
A single stitch reflecting upon friars, 
Although you swore it only was in fun ; 
VOL. Il.—I 1 


452 


. BEPPO, 


They ’d haul you o’er the coals, and stir the fires 
Of Phlegethon with every mother’s son, 

Nor say one mass to cool the caldron’s bubbie 

That boil’d your bones, unless you paid them double 


V. 
But saving this, you may put on whate’er 
You like by way of doublet, cape, or cloak, 
Such as in Monmouth-street, or in Rag Fair, 
Would rig you out in seriousness or joke ; : 
And even in Italy such places are, 
With prettier name in softer accents spoke, 
For, bating Convent Garden, | can hit on 
No place that’s call’d “ Piazza” in Great Britain. 


VI. 


This feast is named the Carnival, which being 
Interpreted, implies “ farewell to flesh: ’ 

So call’d, because the name and thing agreeing, 
Through Lent they live on fish both salt and iresh. 

But why they usher Lent with so much glee in, 
Is more than I can tell, although I guess 

’T is as we take a glass with friends at parting, 

In the stage-coach or packet, just at starting. 


Vil. 


And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes, 
And solid meats, and highly spiced ragouts, 
To live for forty days on ill-dress’d fishes, 
Because they have no sauces to their stews, 
A thing which causes many “ poohs” and “ pishes,” 
And several oaths (which would not suit the Muse), 
From travellers accustom’d from a boy 
To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy ; 


VIli. 


And therefore humbly I would recommend 
« The curious in fish-sauce,” before they cross 
The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend, 
Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross, 
(Or if set out beforehand, these may send 
By any means least liable to loss), 
Ketchup, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Harvey, 
Or, by the Lord! a Lent will well nigh starve ye ; 


A VENETIAN STORY. | 483 


IX. 

That is to say, if your religion ’s Roman, 

And you at Rome would do as Romans do, 
According to the proverb, — although no man, . 

If foreign, is obliged to fast; and you, 
If Protestant, or sickly, or a woman, 

Would rather dine in sin on a ragout — 
Dine and be d—d! 1 do n’t mean to be coarse, 
But that ’s the penalty, to say no worse. 


x 


Of all the places where the Carnival 
Was most facetious in the days of yore, 
For dance; and song, and serenade, and ball, 
‘And masque, and mime, and mystery, and more 
Than [have time to tell now, or at all, 
Venice the bell from every city bore, — 
And at the moment when I fix my story, 
That sea-born city was in all her glory. 


XI.- 

They ’ve pretty faces yet, those same Venetians, 

Black eyes, arch’d brows, and sweet expressions still ; 
Such as of old were copied from the Grecians, - 

In ancient arts by moderns mimick’d ill; | 
And like so many Venuses of Titian’s 

(The best ’s at Florence — see it, if ye will,) 
They look when leaning over the balcony, 
Or stepp’d from out a picture by Giorgione, 


XII. 
Whose tints are truth and beauty at their. best ; - 
And when you to Manfrini’s palace go, _ 
That picture (howsoever fine the rest) 
Is loveliest to my mind of all the show-; 
It may perhaps be also to your zest, 
And that ’s the cause I rhyme upon it so : 
_ °T is but a portrait of his son, and wife, 
And self; but such a woman! love in life. 


XIII. 
Love in full life and length, not love ideal, 

No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name, 
But something better still, so very real, 

That the sweet model must have been the same ; 


484 , BEPPO, 


A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal, 
Wer ’t not impossible, besides a shame ; 

The face recalls some face, as ’t were with pain, 

You once have seen, but ne’er will see again ; 


XIV. 

One of those forms which flit by us, when we 

Are young, and fix our eyes on every face ; 
And, oh! the loveliness at times we see 

In momentary gliding, the soft grace, 
The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree, 

In many a nameless being we retrace, 
Whose course and home we knew not, nor shall know 
Like the lost Pleiad (*) seen no more below. 


XV. 


I said that like a picture by Giorgione 

Venetian women were, and so they are, 
Particularly seen from a balcony, 

(For beauty ’s sometimes best set off afar) 
And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni, 

They peep from out the blind, or o’er the bar ; 
And truth to say, they ’re mostly very pretty, 
And rather like to show it, more ’s the pity ! 


xVI. 


For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs, 
Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter, 
Which flies on wings of light-heel’d Mercuries, 
Who do such things because they know no better ; 
And then, God knows, what mischief may arise, 
When love links two young people in one fetter, 
Vile assignations, and adulterous beds, 
Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads. 


XVII. 


Shakspeare described the sex in Desdemona 
As very fair, but yet suspect in fame, 
And to this day from Venice to Verona 
Such matters may be probably the same, 
Except that since those times was never known a 
Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame 
To suffocate a wife no more than twenty, 
Because she had a “ cavalier servente.” 


(1) ‘‘ Que septem dici sex tamen esse solent.””—Ovip. 


A VENETIAN STORY. 425 


XVIII. 


Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous) 
Is of a fair complexion altogether, 
Not like that sooty devil of Othello’s 
Which smothers women in a bed of feather, 
But worthier of these much more jolly fellows, 
When weary of the matrimonial tether 
His head for such a wife no mortal bothers, 
But takes at once another, or another’s. 


XIX. 


Didst ever see a Gondola? For fear 
You should not, I ’ll describe it you exactly : 
’T is a long cover’d boat that ’s common here, 
Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly, 
Row’d by two rowers, each call’d ““ Gondolier,”’ 
It glides along the water looking blackly, 
Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe, 
Where none can make out what you say or do. 


KX. 


And up and down the long canals they go, 
And under the Rialto shoot along, 
By night and day, all paces, swift or slow, 
And round the theatres, a sable throng, 
They wait in their dusk livery of woe, — 
But not to them do woful things belong, 
For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, 
Like mourning coaches when the funeral ’s done. 


KTS 

But to my story. —’T was some years ago, 

It may be thirty,.forty, more or less, 
The carnival was at its height, and so 

Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress ; 
A certain lady went to see the show, 

Her real name [ know not, nor can guess, 
And so we Ἶ] call her Laura, if you please, 
Because it slips into my verse with ease. 


XXII. 
She was not old, nor young, nor at the years 
Which certain people call a “ certain age,” 
Which yet the most uncertain age appears, 
Because I never heard, nor could engage 


486 


BEPPO, 


A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears, 

To name, define by speech, or write on page, 
The period meant precisely by that word, — 
Which surely is exceedingly absurd. 


XXIII. 
Laura was blooming still, had made the best 
Of time, and time return’d the compliment, 


‘And treated her genteelly, so that, dress’d, 


She look’d extremely well where’er she went ; 
A pretty woman is a welcome guest, 

And Laura’s brow a frown had rarely bent, 
Indeed she shone all smiles, and seem’d to flatter 
Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her. 


XXIV. 
She was a married woman ; ’t is convenient, 
Because in Christian countries ’t is a rule 
To view their little slips with eyes more lenient ; 
Whereas if single ladies play the fool 
(Unless within the period intervenient 
A well-timed wedding makes the scandal cool) 
I do n’t know how they ever can get over it, 
Except they manage never to discover it. 


XXV. 

Her husband sail’d upon the Adriatic, 

And made some voyages, too, in other seas, 
And when he lay in quarantine for pratique, 

(A forty days’ precaution ’gainst disease) 
His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic, 

For thence she could discern the ship with ease : 
He was a merchant trading to Aleppo, 
His name Giuseppe, cali’d more briefly, Beppo. (7) 


XXVI. 
He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, 
. Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure ; 

Though colour’d, as it were, withm a tanyard, 

He was a person both of sense and vigour — 
A better seaman never yet did man yard : 

And she, although her manners show’d no rigour, 
Was deem’d a woman of the strictest principle, 
So much as to be thought almost invincible. 


(1) Beppo is the Joe of the Italian Joseph, 


A VENETIAN STORY. 487 


XXVII. 
But several years elapsed since they had met ; 
Some people thought the ship was lost, and some 
That he had somehow blunder’d into debt, 
And did not like the thought of steering home ; 
And there were several offer’d any bet, 
Or that he would, or that he would not come, 
For most men (till by losmg render’d sager) 
Will back their own opinions with a wager. 


| XXVIII. 
’T is said that their last parting was pathetic, 
As partings often are, or ought to be, 
And their presentiment was quite prophetic 
That they should never more each other see, 
(A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic, 
Which I have known occur in two or three,) 
When kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee, 
He left this Adriatic Ariadne. 


XXIX. 
And Laura waited long, and wept a little, 
And thought of wearing weeds, as weil she might ; 
She almost lost all appetite for victual, 
And could not sleep with ease alone at night ; 
She deem’d the window-frames and shutters brittle” 
Against a daring housebreaker or sprite, 
And so she thought it prudent to connect her 
With a vice-husband, chiefly to protect her. 


χα. 
She chose, (and what is there they will not choose, 
If only you will but oppose their choice ?) 
Till Beppo should return from his long cruise, 
And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice, 
A man some women like, and yet abuse — 
A coxcomb was he by the public voice ; 
A Count of wealth, they said, as well as quality, 
Aud in his pleasures of great liberality. 


XXXI. 
And then he was a Count, and then he knew 

Music, and dancing, fiddling, &rench and Tuscan; 
The last not easy, be it known to you, 

Tor few Italians speak the right itruscan. 


458 


BEPPO, 


He was a critic upon operas, too, 

And knew all niceties of the sock and buskin 3; 
And no Venetian audience could endure a 
Song, scene, or air, when he cried *“ seccatura !” 


XXXII. 


His * bravo” was decisive, for that sound 
Hush’d ““ Academie” sigh’d in silent awe ; 
The fiddlers trembled as he look’d around, 

For fear of some false note’s detected flaw. 
The “ prima donna’s’’ tuneful heart would bound, 
Dreading the deep damnation of his * bah!” 

Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, 
Wish’d him five fathom under the Rialto. 


KIA: 

He patronised the Improvisatori, 

Nay, could himself extemporise some stanzas, 
Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story, 

Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as 
Italians can be, though in this their glory 

Must surely yield the palm to that which France has , 
In short, he was a perfect cavaliere, 
And to his very valet seem’d a hero. 


XXXIV. 
Then he was faithful too, as well as amorous ; 
So that no sort of female could complain, 
Although they ’re now and then a little clamorous, 
He never put the pretty souls in pain; 
His heart was one of those which most enamour us, 
Wax to receive, and marble to retain. 
He was a lover of the good old school, 
Who still become more constant as they cool. 


KXXV. 


No wonder such accomplishments should turn 
A female head, however sage and steady — 
With scarce a hope that Beppo could return, 
In law he was almost as good as dead, he 
Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show’d the least concern, 
And she had waited several years already , 
And really if a man won’t let us know 
That he ’s alive, he ’s dead, or should be so. 


A VENETIAN STORY. 489 


XXXVI. 


Besides, within the Alps, to every woman, 
(Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin,) 

’T is, I may say, permitted to have two men 3 
I can’t tell who first brought the custom in, 

But “ Cavalier Serventes ” are quite common, 
And no one notices nor cares a pin ; 

And we may call this (not to say the worst) 

A second marriage which corrupts the [08]. 


XXXVII. 


The word was formerly a “ Cicisbeo,” 

But that is now grown vulgar and indecent ; 
The Spaniards call the person a ‘* Cortejo,” (*) 

For the same mode subsists in Spain, though recent ; 
In short it reaches from the Po to Teio, 

And may perhaps at last be o’er the sea sent. 
But Heaven preserve Old England from such courses! 
Or what becomes of damage and divorces ? 


XXXVIII. 


However, [ still think, with all due deference 
To the fair single part of the Creation, 
That married ladies should preserve the preference 
In téte-d-téie or general conversation — 
And this I say without peculiar reference 
To England, France, or any other nation — 
Because they know the world, and are at ease, 
And being natural, naturally please. 


ΧΧΧΙΧ. 

15 true, your budding Miss is very charming, 
But shy and awkward at first coming out, 

So much alarm’d, that she is quite alarming, 
All Giggle, Blush; half Pertness, and half Pout 

And glancing at Mamma, for fear there ’s harm m 
What you, she, it, or they, may be about, 

The Nursery still lisps out in all they utter — 

Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. 


(1) ** Cortejo” is pronounced ‘ Corteho,” with an aspirate, according to the Ara- 
besque guttural. It means what there is as yet no precise name for in England, 
though the practice is as common as in any tramontane country whatever. 


490 


BEPPO, 


: Mi 
But “ Cavalier Servente ’’-is the phrase 
Used in politest circles to express 
This supernumerary slave, who stays 
Close to the lady as a part of dress, 
Her word the only law which he obeys. 
His is no sinecure, as you may guess; 
Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call, 
And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl. 


ALi 
With ail its sinful doings, I must say, 
That Italy ’s a pleasant place to me,- 
Who love to see the Sun shine every day, 
And vines (not nail’d to walls) from tree to tree 
Festoon’d, much like the back scene of a play, 
Or melodrame, which people flock to see, 
When the first act is ended by a dance 
In vineyards copied from the south of France. 


<LI. 

{ like on Autumn evenings to ride out, 

Without being forced to bid my groom be sure 
My cloak is round his middle strapp’d about, 

Because the skies are not the most secure ; 
1 know too that, if stopp’d upon my route, 

Where the green alleys windingly allure, 
Reeling with grapes red wagons choke the way, — 


In England ’t would be dung, dust, or a dray. 


Fiduca 2 Bc 6 
T also like to dine on becaficas, . 
.To see the Sun set, sure he ’Il rise to-morrow, 
Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as 
A drunken man’s dead eye in maudlin sorrow, 
But with all Heaven t’ himself; that day will break as 
Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow 
That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers 
Where reeking London’s smoky caldron simmers. 


XLIV. 
[ love the language, that soft bastard Latin, 
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, 
And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, 
With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, 


A VENETIAN STORY. 491 


And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, 

That not a single accent seems uncouth, 
Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, 
Which we ’re ea te to hiss, and spit, and sputter all. 


XLV. 


[ like the women too, (forgive my folly), 
From the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze, 
And large black eyes that flash on you a volley 
Of rays that say a thousand things at once, 
To the high dama’s brow, more melancholy, 

But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance, 
Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, 
Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies. 


XLVI. 


Eve of the land which still is Paradise ! 
Italian beauty! didst thou not inspire 


Raphael, (*) who died in thy embrace, and vies 


(1) 
(2) 


With all we know of Heaven, or can desire, 
In what he hath bequeath’d us ? — in what guise, 
Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre, 
Would words describe thy past and present glow, 

While yet Canova can create below ? (ἢ 


XLVIi. 


“ England! with all thy faults I love thee still,” 
I said at Calais, and have not forgot it ; 
I like to speak and lucubrate my fill ; 
I like the government, (but that is not it) ; 
I like the freedom of the press and quill; 
I like the Habeas Corpus, (when we ’ve got it) ; 
I like a parliamentary debate, 
Particularly when ’t is not too late ; 


For the received accounts of the cause of Raphael’s death, see his Lives. 


(In talking thus, the writer, more especially ~ 
Of women, would be understood to say, 
He speaks asa spectator, not oificially, 
And always, reader, in a modest way; 
Perhaps, too, in no very great degree shall he 
Appear to have offended in this lay, 
Since, as all know, without the sex, our sonnets 
Would seem unfinish’d, like their untrimm’d bonnets. 
(Signed) PRINTER’s DeEvIL. 


492 BEPPO, 


XLVIII. 
I like the taxes, when they ’re not too many ; 

I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear ; 
I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any : 

Have no objection to a pot of beer ; 
1 like the weather, when it is not rainy, 

That is, I like two months of every year. 
And so God save the Regent, Church, and King! 
Which means that I like all and every thing. 


ΠΝ: 

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, 

Poor’s rate, Reform, my own, the nation’s debt, 
Our little riots just to show we are free men, 

Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, 
Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women, 

All these I can forgive, and those forget, 
And greatly venerate our recent glories, 
And wish they were not owing to the Tories. 


i 
But to my tale of Laura, — for I find ἡ 
Digression is a sin, that by degrees 
Becomes exceeding tedious to my. mind, 
And, therefore, may the reader too displease — 
The gentle reader, who may wax unkind, 
And caring little for the author’s ease, 
Insists on knowing what he means, a hard 
And hapless situation for a bard. 


ἔπει 

Oh that I had the art of easy writing 

What should be easy reading! could I scale 
Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing ὁ 

Those pretty poems never known to fail, 
How quickly would I print (the world delighting) 

A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale ; 
And. sell you, mix’d with western sentimentalism, - 
Some samples of the finest Orientalism. 


= Lite 

But I am but a nameless sort of person, 
(A broken Dandy lately on my travels) 

And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on, 
The first that Walker’s Lexicon unravels, 


A VENETIAN STORY. 493 


And when I can’t find that, I put a worse on, 
Not caring as I ought for critics’ cavils ; 

I’ve half a mind to tumble down to prose 

But verse is more in fashion — so here goes, 


LUI. 
The Count and Laura made their new arrangement, 
Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do, 
For half a dozen years without estrangement ; 
They had their little differences, too ; 
Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant : 
In such affairs there probably are few 
Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble, 
From sinners of high station to the rabble. 


LIv. 


But, on the whole, they were a happy pair, 
As happy as unlawful love could make them ; 
The gentleman was fond, the lady fair, [ them : 
Their chains so slight, ’t was not worth while to break 
The world beheld them with indulgent air ; 
The pious only wish’d “the devil take them!” 
He took them not; he very often waits, 
And leaves old sinners to be young ones’ baits. 


LY. 


But they were young: Oh! what without our youth 
Would love be! What would youth be without love! 

Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigour, truth, 
Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above ; 

But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth — 
One of few things experience do n’t improve, 

Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows 

Are always so preposterously jealous. 


LVI. 


It was the Carnival, as I have said 
Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so 
Laura the usual preparations made, 
Which you do when your mind ’s made up to go 
To-night to Mrs. Boehm’s masquerade, 
Spectator, or partaker in the show ; 
The only difference known between the cases 
Is — here, we have six weeks of “ varnish’d faces.” 


= 


494 


BEPPO, 


LVII. 


Laura, when dress’d, was (as I sang before) 
A pretty woman as was ever seen, 

Fresh as the Angel o’er a new inn door, 
Or frontispiece of a new Magazine, 

With ail the fashions which the last month wore, 
‘Colour’d, and silver paper leaved between 

That and the title-page, for fear the press 

Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress. 


LVIII. 
They. went to the Ridotto ; — ’t is a hall 


Where people dance, and sup, and dance again ; 


Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued ball, 
But that ’s of no importance to my strain ; 
’T is (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, 
. Excepting that it can’t be spoilt by rain: 
The company is “ mix’d,” (the phrase I quote is 
As much as saying, they ’re below your notice) ; 


gk PTX. 
For a “ mix’d company” implies that, save 
Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more, 
Whom you may bow to without looking grave, 
The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore 
Of public places, where they basely brave, 
The fashionable stare of twenty score 
Of well-bred persons, call’d “the World ;” but I, 
Although I know them, really don’t know why. 


τῆς, 
This is the case in England ; at least was 

- During the dynasty of Dandies, now 
Perchance succeeded by some other class 

Οὐ imitated imitators : — how 
Irreparably soon decline, alas ! 

The demagogues of fashion: all below 

Is frail ; how easily the world is lost 
By love, or war, and now and then by frost ! 


LXL ! 
Crush’d was Napoleon by the northern Thor, 


Who knock’d his army down with icy hammer, 
Stopp’d by the elements, like a whaler, or 


ee blunderi ing novice in his new French grammar ; 


— 
eee eEEEEeeeeEee 


A VENETIAN STORY. 495 


Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war, 
And as for Fortune — but I dare not d—vn her, 

Because, were I to ponder to infinity, 

The more [ should believe in her divinity. 


Bache 
She rules the present, past, and all to be yet, 
She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and marriage ; 
I cannot say that she ’s done much for me yet ; 
Not that I mean her bounties to disparage, 
We ’ve not yet closed accounts, and we shall see yet, 
How much she ’ll make amends for past miscarriage 
Meantime the goddess I ’Il_no more importune, 
Unless to thank her when she ’s made my fortune. 


LXIII. 


To turn, — and to return ; — the devil take it! 
This story slips for ever through my fingers, 
Because, just as the stanza likes to make it, 
It needs must be — and so it rather lingers ; 
This form of verse began, I can’t well break it, 
But must keep time and tune like public singers ; 
But if I once get through my present measure, 
11 take another when I ’m next at leisure. 


LXIV. 


They went to the Ridotto, (’t is a place 
To which I mean to go myself to-morrow, 

Just to divert my thoughts a little space, 

— Because I’m rather hippish, and may borrow 

- Some spirits, guessing at what kind of tace 
May lurk beneath each mask ; and as my sorrow 

-Slackens its pace sometimes, I 71 make, or find, 

Something shall leave it half an hour k chind.) 


LXV. 


- Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, 
Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips ; 

To some she whispers, others speaks aloud ; - 
To some she curtsies, and to some she dips, 

Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow’d, 
Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips ; 

She then surveys, condemns, but pities still 

Her dearest friends’ for being dress’d so ill. 


490 


'ΒΕΡΡΟ;, 


LXVI. 


One has false curls, another too much paint, 

A third — where did she buy that frightful turban 1 
A fourth ’s so pale she fears she ’s going to faint, 

A fifth ’s look ’s vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, 
A sixth’s white silk has got a yellow taint, 

A seventh ’s thin muslin surely will be her bane, 
And lo! an eighth appears, — “I ἢ] see no more ! ” 
For fear, like Banquo’s kings, they reach a score. 


LXVII. 

Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, 
Others were levelling their looks at her ; 

She heard the men’s half-whisper’d mode of praising, 
And, till Ἢ was done, determined not to stir; 

The women only thought it quite amazing 
That, at her time of life, so many were 

Admirers still, — but men are so debased, 

Those brazen creatures always suit their taste. 


LXVIII. 


For my part, now, I ne’er could understand 
Why naughty women — but I won’t discuss 
A thing which is a scandal to the land, 
I only do n’t see why it should be thus ; 
And if I were but in a gown and band, 
Just to entitle me to make a fuss, 
I ’d preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly 
Should quote in their next speeches from my homily. 


XIX: 
While Laura thus was seen and seeing, smiling, 
Talking, she knew not why and cared not what, 
So that her female friends, with envy broiling, 
Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that ; 
And well dress’d males still kept before her filing, 
And passing bow’d and mingled with her chat ; 
More than the rest one person seem’d to stare 
With pertinacity that ’s rather rare. 


LXX. 


He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany ; 
And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, 
Because the Turks so much admire philogyny, 
Although their usage of their wives is sad ; 


A VENETIAN STORY. 497 


°T is said they use no better than a dog any 

Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad : 
They have a number, though they ne’er exhibit ’em, 
Four wives by law, and concubines “ ad libitum.” 


LXXI. 


They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily, 
They scarcely can behold their male relations, 

So that their moments do not pass so gaily 
As is supposed the case with northern nations ; 

Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely : 
And as the ‘Turks abhor long conversations, 

Their days are either pass’d in doing nothing, 

Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing. 


LXXII. 


They cannot read, and so do n’t lisp in criticisin ; 
Nor write, and so they do n’t affect the muse ; 

Were never caught in epigram or witticism, 
Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews, — 

in harams learning soon would make a pretty schistu ! 
But luckily these beauties are no “ Blues,” 

No bustling Botherbys have they to show ’em 

“ That charming passage in the last new poe: 


LXXIill. 


No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme, 
Who having angled all his life for fame, 
And getting but a nibble at a time, 
Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same 
Small “ Triton of the minnows,” the sublime 
Of mediocrity, the furious tame, 
The echo’s echo, usher of the school 
Of female wits, boy bards — in short, a fool! 


LXXIV. 


A stalking oracle of awful phrase, 
The approving “ Good!” (by no means Goop in law) 
Humming like flies around the newest blaze, 
The bluest of bluebotties you e’er saw, 
Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise, 
Gorging the little fame he gets all raw, 
Translating tongues he knows not even by letter, 
And sweating plays so middling, bad were better. 
VOL. HI.—K k 


498 | BEPPO, 


LXXV. 


One hates an author that ’s all auihor, fellows 

In foolscap uniforms turn’d up with ink, 
So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, 

One do n’t know what to say to them, or think, 
Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows ; 

Of coxcombry’s worst coxcombs e’en the pink 
Are preferable to these shreds of paper, __ 
These unquench’d snuffings of the midnight taper. 


LXXVI. 
Of these same we see several, and of others, 
Men of the world, who know the world like men, 
Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brothers, 
Who think of something else besides the pen ; 
But for the children of the “ mighty mother’s,” 
The would-be wits and can’t-be gentlemen, 
I leave them to their daily “ tea is ready,” 
Smug coterie, and literary lady. 


LXXVII. 

The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention 
Have none of these instructive pleasant people, 

And one would seem to them a new invention, 
Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple ; 

Τ think ’t would almost be worth while to pension 
(Though best-sown projects very often reap ill) 

A missionary author, just to preach 

Our Christian usage of the parts of speech. 


LXXVIII. 


No chemistry for them unfolds her gasses, 

No metaphysics are let loose in lectures, 
No circulating library amasses 

Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures 
Upon the living manners, as they pass us ; 

No exhibition glares with annual pictures ; 
They stare not on the stars from out their attics, 
Nor deal (thank God for that!) in mathematics. 


LXXI%s 
Why I thank God for that is no great matter, 
I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose, 
And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter, 
ΕἼ] keep them for my life (to come) in prose ; 


A VENETIAN STORY. 499 


I fear I have a little turn for satire, 

And yet methinks the older that one grows 
Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughter 
Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. ἡ 


| LXXX. 
Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! 
Ye happy mixtures of more happy days! 
In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter, . 
Abominable Man no more allays 
His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter, 
I love you both, and both shall have my praise : 
Oh. for old Saturn’s reign of sugar-candy ! — 
Meantime [ drink to your return in brandy. 


LXXXI. 


Our Laura’s Turk still kept his eyes upon her, 

Less in the Mussulman than Christian way, 

Which seems to say, “ Madam, I do you honour, 

τς * And while I please to stare, you ’Il please to stay :” 
Could staring win a woman, this had won her, 

But Laura could not thus be led astray ; 
She had stood fire too long and well, to boggle 
Even at this stranger’s most outlandish ogle. 


LXXXII. 


The morning now was on the point of breaking, 
A turn of time at which I would advise 
Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking 
In any other kind of exercise, 
To make their preparations for forsaking 
The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise, 
Because when once the lamps and candles fail, 
His blushes make them look a little pale. 


LXXXIIIe 


{ ’ve seen some balls and revels in my time, 
And stay’d them over for some silly reason, 
And then 1 look’d, (I hope it was no crime,) 
To see what lady best stood out the season ; 
And though I ’ve seen some thousands in their prime, 
Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on, 
IT never saw but one, (the stars withdrawn), 
Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn. 


BEPPO, 


LXXXIV. 


The name of this Aurora I 71 not mention, 

Although I might, for she was nought to me 
More than that patent-work of God’s invention, 

A charming woman, whom we like to see ; 
But writing names would merit reprehension, 

Yet if you like to find out this fair she, 
At the next London or Parisian ball 
You still may mark her cheek, out-blooming all. 

: 
LXXXV. 

Laura, who knew it would not do at all 

To meet the daylight after seven hours’ sitting 
Among three thousand people at a ball, 

To make her curtsy thought it right and fitting ; 
The Count was at her elbow with her shawl, 

And they the room were on the point of quitting, 
When lo! those cursed gondoliers had got 
Just in the very place where they should not. 


LXXXVI. 


In this they ’re like our coachmen, and the cause 
Is much the same — the crowd, and pulling, hauling, 
With blasphemies enough to break their jaws, 
They make a never intermitting bawling. 
At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws, 
And here a sentry stands within your calling ; 
But for all that, there is a deal of swearing, 
And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing. 


LXXXVII. 

The Count and Laura found their boat at last, 

And homeward floated o’er the silent tide, 
Discussing all the dances gone and past ; 

The dancers and their dresses, too, beside ; 
Some little scandals eke: but all aghast 

(As to their palace stairs the rowers glide) 
Sate Laura by the side of her Adorer, 
When lo! the Mussulman was there before her. 


; LXXXVIII. 
* Sir,” said the Count, with brow exceeding grave, 
“¢ Your unexpected presence here will make 
“6 It necessary for myself to crave 
“5 import? But perhaps ’t is a mistake ; 


A VENETIAN STORY. 501 


“ T hope it is so; and at once to wave 
*¢ All compliment, I hope so for your sake ; 
“ You understand my meaning, or you shail.” 
« Sir,” (quoth the Turk,) “ ’t is no mistake at all. 


LXXXIX. 


“ That lady is my wife!” Much wonder paints 

The lady’s changing cheek, as well it might ; 
But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints, 

Italian females do n’t do so outright ; 
They only call a little on their saints, 

And then come to themselves, almost or quite ; 
Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling faces, 
And cutting stays, as usual in such cases. 


XC. 


She said, — what could she say ? Why, not a word : 
But the Count courteously invited in 
The stranger, much appeased by what he heard : 
« Such things, perhaps, we ’d best discuss within,” 
Said he; ‘ do n’t let us make ourselves absurd 
“ἴῃ public, by a scene, nor raise a din, 
For then the chief and only satisfaction 
Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction.” 


XC{. 


They enter’d, and for coffee call’d — it came, 
A beverage for Turks and Christians both, 
Although the way they make it ’s not the same. 
Now Laura, much recover’d, or less loth 
To speak, cries * Beppo! what ’s your pagan name 1 
Bless me! your beard 15 of amazing growth ! 
And how came you to keep away so long? 
Are you not sensible ’t was very wrong ἢ 


XCII. 


“ And are you really, truly, now a Turk? 
With any other women did you wive ? 
Is *t true they use their fingers for a fork ? 
Well, that ’s the prettiest shawl — as I ’m alive! 
You ’ll give it me? They say you eat no pork. 
And how so many years did you contrive 
To — Bless me! did 1 ever? No, I never 
Saw a man grown so yellow! How’s your liver? 


BEPPO, 


XCIII. 


‘“« Beppo! that beard of yours becomes you not ; 

It shall be shaved before you ’re a day older: 
Why do you wear it? Oh! [1 had forgot — 

Pray do n’t you think the weather here is colder ? 
How do I look? You sha’n’t stir from this spot 

In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder Ὁ 
Should find you out, and make the story known. 
How short your hair is! Lord! how gray it’s grown!” 


XCIV. 


What answer Beppo made to these demands 
Is more than | know. He was cast away 
About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands ; 
Became a slave of course, and for his pay 
Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands 
Of pirates landing in a neighbouring bay, 
He join’d the rogues and prosper’d, and became 
A renegado of indifferent fame. 


XCV. 
But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so 
Keen the desire to see his home again, 
He thought himself in duty bound to do so, 
And a be always thieving on the main ; 
Lonely he felt, at times, as obin Crusoe, 
And so he hired a vessel come from Spain, 
Bound for Corfu: she was a fine polacca, 
Mann/’d with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco. 


XCVI. 


Himself, and much (heaven knows how gotten !) cash, 


He then embark’d with risk of life and limb, 
And got clear off, although the attempt was rash; 

He said that Providence protected him — 
For my part, I say nothing, lest we clash 

In our opinions : — well, the ship was trim, 
Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on, 
Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn. 


XCVII. 

They reach’d the island, he transferr’d his lading, 
And self and live stock, to another bottom, 

And pass’d for a true Turkey merchant, trading 
With goods of various names, but I ’ve forgot ’em 


A VENETIAN STORY. 


However, he got off by this evading, 

Or else the people would perhaps have shot him ; 
And thus at Venice landed to reclaim 
His wife, religion, house, and Christian name. 


XCVIII. 
His wife received, the patriarch re-baptized him, 
(He made the church a present, by the way) ; 
He then threw off the garments which disguised him, 
And borrow’d the Count’s small-clothes for a day : 
His friends the more for his long absence prized hum, 
Finding he ’d wherewithal to make them gay, 
With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of them, 
For stories — but I do n’t believe the half of them. 


ΧΟΙΧ. 

Whate’er his youth had suffer’d, his old age 

With wealth and talking made him some amends ; 
Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage, 

I’ve heard the Count and he were always friends. 
My pen is at the bottom of a page, 

Which being finish’d, here the story ends ; 
’'T is to be wish’d it had been sooner done, 
But stories somehow lengthen when begun. 


503 


ἮΝ εἰ Δ: Jeg ἷ 
ἣ ν "a 


Ode ody Ais ts 
ΠῚ itera 


ee "ἢ j ἢ “th re, 4 Pt i Ἢ rah ; ΗΝ 
ce τ ᾿ ‘ie shes 
i ; au γῇ ie ἢ 
Ἂν - Ἷ ean ἢ A Ma 


MAZEPP A. 


ἀκα ς ΜΡ “πὰ 
A ΣΌΝ] ΚΠ ὦ vex 
f ἊΝ ἢ BT) 7 


κλπ: 


ΡῈ 
ΔΨ es 
ῬΊΟΝ, 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


Ὁ CELUI qui remplissait alors cette place était un gentilhomme 
Polonais, nommé Mazeppa, né dans le palatinat de Padolie : il 
avait été élevé page de Jean Casimir, et avait pris ἃ sa cour quel- 
que teinture des belles-lettres. Une intrigue qu’il eut dans sa 
jeunesse avec la femme d’un gentilhomme Polonais ayant été 
découverte, le mari le fit lier tout nu sur un cheval farouche, et 
le laissa aller en cet état. Le cheval, qui était du pays de 
Ukraine, y retourna, et y porta Mazeppa, demi-mort de fatigue 
et de faim. Quelques paysans le secoururent: 1] resta longtems 
parmi eux, et se signala dans plusieurs courses contre les Tar- 
tares. La supériorité de ses lumiéres lui donna une grande con- 
sidération parmi les Cosaques: sa réputation s’augmentant de 
jour en jour, obligea le Czar a le faire Prince de Ukraine.” — 
Vorraire, Mist. de Charles XU. p. 196 


* Le roi fuyant, et poursuivi, eut son cheval tué sous lui; le 
Colonel Gieta, blessé, et perdant tout son sang, lui donna le sien. 
Ainsi on remit deux fois ἃ cheval, dans la fuite, ce conquérant 
qui n’avait pu y monter pendant la bataille.”? — p. 216. 


“ Le roi alla par un autre chemin avec quelques cavaliers. 
Le carrosse, ot il €tait, rompit dans la marche ; on le remit ἃ 
cheval. Pour comble de disgrace, il s’égara pendant la nuit 
dans un bois; la, son courage ne pouvant plus suppléer a ses 
forces €puisews, les douleurs de sa blessure devenues plus insup- 
portables par la fatigue, son cheval étant tombé de lassitude, 1 
se coucha quelques heures au pied d’un arbre, en danger d’étre 
surpris a tout moment par les vainqueurs qui le cherchaient de 
tous cétés.” —p. 218. | 


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eer sD BoB, gang suns ee Bees Mighell ar. Ryplo > siaag. 

μετειιβῥ ιν tidy pigs, ΚΝ _ dgipal-salloa ῬΡΉ, Sault ca ΩΝ 
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; fia, τ pisseggisivat ieee Ly i> ΡΝ Rt’ | ΔῸΣ 


ΡΝ ΓΝ ἴω; ἘΣ as amiga Ὁ δὴ Ὁ “opi ob ie 
a Ω με othe hae Wisp: 3 ae? ical Bis dos ἌΚΡΗ. ipa: 
γ᾿ δ ΡΝ βου Sie ai ΤῊΝ a ᾿ 
ans Cielo Cy: agape oe ashi he a) 
4 Pie ge ‘Mom ine ΕΠ wit on lar Sa ὯΝ ae 
ἊΝ ets ao 3 4) κι" a er. ἐμὰν ὁ bans: » ἐπ 5 


Ἢ ἘΩ͂ enol ΠΕ Fy ii: (ἘΦ sitioni0g a ae ee 4, 

Ἢ ᾿ = a nent rate ae) i, ΠΟΥ dpa lydcra $3 peeete παρ. ee 
“capt tes by bai, ῥο. ic ie Bee > ae nab agiivos, Aa, Neate 
| ee = a is a ἐμ ts a yee ne 


MAZEPPA. 


I. 


"T was after dread Pultowa’s day, 
When fortune left the royal Swede. 
Around a slaughter’d army lay, 
No more to combat and to bleed. 
The power and glory of the war, 
Faithless as their vain votaries, men, 
Had pass’d to the triumphant Czar, 
And Moscow’s walls were safe again, 
Until a day more dark and drear, 
And a more memorable year, 
Should give to slaughter and to shame 
A mightier host and haughtier name ; 
A greater wreck, a deeper fall, 
A shock to one —a thunderbolt to all. 


II. 


Such was the hazard of the die ; 
The wounded Charles was taught to fly 
By day and night through field and flood 
Stain’d with his own and subjects’ blooa ; 
For thousands fell that flight to aid: 
And not a voice was heard t’? upbraid 
Ambition in his humbled hour, 
When truth had nought to dread from power 
His horse was slain, and Gieta gave 
His own — and died the Russians’ slave. 
This too sinks after many a league 
Of well sustain’d, but vain fatigue ; 
And in the depth of forests, darkling 
The watch-fires in the distance sparkling — 
The beacons of surrounding foes — 
A king must lay his limbs at length. 
Are these the laurels and repose 
For which the nations strain their strength 7 


MAZEPPA. 


They laid him by a savage tree, 

In outworn nature’s agony ; 

His wounds were stiff — his limbs were stark — 
The heavy hour was chill and dark ; 
The fever in his blood forbade 

A transient slumber’s fitful aid, 

And thus it was; but yet through all, 
Kinglike the monarch bore his fall, 
And made, in this extreme of ill, 
His pangs the vassals of his will : 
All silent and subdued were they, 

As once the nations round him lay. 


11: 


A band of chiefs ! — alas! how few, 
Since but the fleeting of a day 

Had thinn’d it ; but this wreck was true 
And chivalrous : upon the clay 

Each sate him down, all sad and mute, 
Beside his monarch and his steed, 

For danger levels man and brute, 

\, And all are fellows in their need. 

Among the rest, Mazeppa made 

His pillow in an old oak’s shade — 

Himself as rough, and scarce less old, 

The Ukraine’s hetman, calm and bold; 

_ But first, outspent with this long course, 

The Cossack prince rubb’d down his horse, 

And made for him a leafy bed, 
And smooth’d his fetlocks and his mane, 
And slack’d his girth, and stripp’d his rein. 

And joy’d to see how well he fed ; 

For until now he had the dread 

His wearied courser might refuse 

To browse beneath the midnight dews : 

But he was hardy as his lord, 

And littie cared for bed and board ; 

But spirited and docile too; __ 

Whate’er was to be done, would do. 

Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, 

Ali Tartar-like he carried him ; 

Obey’d his voice, and came to call, 

And knew him in the midst of all : 

Though thousands were around, — and Night, 

Without a star, pursued her flight, — 


MAZEPPA. 


That steed from sunset until dawn 
His chief would follow like a fawn. 


IV. 


This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, 

And laid his lance beneath his oak, 

Felt if his arms in order good 

The long day’s march had well withstood —. 
If still the powder fill’d the pan, 

And flints unloosen’d kept their lock — 
His sabre’s hilt and scabbard. fe st. 
And whether‘ the}snnd Gteted ate tea 
And next the venerable man, 

From out his havresack and can, 

Prepared and spread his slender stock ; 
And to the monarch and his men 
The whole or portion offer’d then 
With far less of inquietude 
Than courtiers at a banquet would. 

And Charles of this his slender share, 
With smiles partook a moment there, 

To force of cheer a greater show, 

And seem above both wounds and woe ; — 
And then he said — “ Of all our band, 
Though firm of heart and strong of hand, 
In skirmish, march, or forage, none 

an less have said or more have done 

han thee, Mazeppa! On the earth 
So fit a pair had never birth, 

Since Alexander’s are till now, 

As thy Bucephalus and thou : 

All Scythia’s fame to thine should yield 
For pricking on o’er flood and field.” 
Mazeppa answer’d — “ lil betide 

The school wherein I Jearn’d to ride!” 


i“. - 


Quoth Charles — “ Old Hetman, wherefore so. 


Since thou hast learn’d the art so well?” 
Mazeppa said — “’T were long to tell ; 
And we have many a league to go 

With every now and then a blow, 

And ten to one at least the foe, 
Before our steeds may graze at ease, 
Beyond the swift Borysthenes : 

And, sire, your limbs have need of rest, 
And I will be the sentinel, 


512 MAZEPPA. 


Of this your troop.” —‘“ But I request,” 
Said Sweden’s monarch, ‘thou wilt tell 
This tale of thine, and I may reap, 
Perchance, from this the boon of sleep ; 
|For at this moment from my eyes 

‘The hope of present slumber flies.” 


«« Well, sire, with such a hope, I ’ll track 
My seventy years of memory back : 
I think ’t was in my twentieth spring, — 
Ay, ’t was, — when Casimir was king — 
John Casimir, —I was his page 
Six summers, in my earlier age : 
ΛΑ learned monarch, faith! was he, 
/And most unlike your majesty : 
tle made no wars, and did not gain 
New realms to lose them back again ; 
And (save debates in Warsaw’s diet) 
He reign’d in most unseemly quiet ; 
) Not thut he had no cares to vex, 
δ loved tne muses and the sex ; 
And sometimes these so froward are, 
‘hey made him wish himself at war ; 
But soon his wrath being o’er, he took 
Another mistress, or new book : 
And then he gave prodigious fétes — 
All Warsaw gather’d round his gates 
‘Vo gaze upon his splendid court, 
And daines, and chiefs, of princely port : 
He was the Polish Solomon, 
So sung his poets, all but one, 
Who, being unpension’d, made a satire, 
And boasted that he could not flatter. 
it was a court of jousts and times; - 
Where every courtier tried at rhymes ; 
Even I for once preduced some verses, 
And sign’d my odes * Despairing Thyrsis.’ 
There was a certain Palatine, 
A count of far and high descent, 
Rich as a salt or silver mine ;* 
And he was proud, ye may divine, 
As if from heaven he had been sent ; 
He had such wealth in blood and ore 
As few could match beneath the throne ; 


* This comparison of a “ salt mine” may, perhaps, be permitted to a Pole, as the 
veulth of the country consists greatly in the salt mines. 


MAZEPPA. 


And he would gaze upon his store, 
And o’er his pedigree would pore, 
Until by some confusion led, 
Which almost look’d like want of head, 
He thought their merits were his own. 
His wife was not of his opinion — 
His junior she by thirty years — 
Grew daily tired of his dominion ; 
And, after wishes, hopes, and fears, 
To virtue a few farewell tears, 
A restless dream or two, some glances 
At Warsaw’s youth, some songs, and dances, 
Awaited but the usual chances, 
Those happy accidents which render 
The coldest dames so very tender, 
To deck her Count with titles given, 
”’T is said, as passports into heaven ; 
But, strange to say, they rarely boast 
Of these, who have deserved them most. 


v. 

T was a goodly stripling then ; 

At seventy years | so may say, 
That there were few, or boys or men, 

Who, in my dawning time of day, 
Of vassal or of knight’s degree, 
Could vie in vanities with me ; 
For I had strength, youth, gayety, 
A port, not like to this ye see, 
But smooth, as all is rugged now ; 

For time, and care, and war, have plough’d 
My very soul from out my brow; 

And thus I should be disavow’d 
By all my kind and kin, could they 
Compare my day and yesterday ; 
This change was wrought, too, long ere age 
Had ta’en my features for his page : 
With years, ye know, have not declined 
My strength, my courage, or my mind, 
Or at this hour I should not be 
Telling old tales beneath a tree, 
With starless skies my canopy. 
But let me on: Theresa’s form — 
Methinks it glides before me now, 
Between me and yon chestnut’s bough, 
The memory is so quick and warm ; 


VOL; 111.---- 


σι 


OS 


514 


MAZEPPA 


And yet 1 find no words to tell 
The shape of her I loved so well : 
She had the Asiatic eye, 
Such as our Turkish neighbourhood, 
Hath mingled with our Polish blood, 
Dark as above us is the sky ; 
But through it stole a tender light, ἢ 
Like the first moonrise of midnight ; 
Large, dark, and swimming in the stream 
Which seem’d to melt to its own beam; 
All love, half languor, and half fire, 
Like saints that at the stake expire, 
And lift their raptured looks on high, 
As though it were a Joy to die. 

A brow like a midsummer lake, 
Transparent with the sun therein, 
When waves no murmur dare to make, 

And heaven beholds her face within. 
A cheek and lip — but why proceed ? 

I loved her then — I love her still ; 
And such as I am, love indeed 

In fierce extremes — in good and ill. 
But still we love even in our rage, 
And haunted to our very age 
With the vain shadow of the past, 
As is Mazeppa to the last. 


vi. 

“© We met — we gazed —I saw, and sigh’d. 
She did not speak, and yet replied ; 
There are ten thousand tones and signs 
We hear and see, but none defines — 
Involuntary sparks of thought, 
Which strike from out the heart o’erwrough. 
And form a strange intelligence, 
Alike mysterious and intense, 
Which link the burning chain that binds, 
Without their will, young hearts and minds : 
Conveying, as the electric wire, 
We know not how, the absorbing fire. — 
I saw, and sigh’d —in silence wept, 
And still reluctant distance kept, 
Until I was made known to her, 
And we might then and there confer 
Without suspicion — then, even then, 

I long’d, and was resolved to speak ; 


ΜΑΖΈΡΡΑ. 51S 


But on my lips they died again, 

The accents tremulous and weak, 

Until one hour. —- There is a game, 

A frivolous and foolish play, 
Wherewith we while away the day ; 

It is — I have forgot the name — 

And we to this, it seems, were set, 

By some strange chance, which I forget : 

I reck’d not if I won or lost, 

It was enough for me to be 
So near to hear, and oh! to see 

The being whom I loved the most.— ' 

I watch’d her as a sentinel, 

(May ours this dark night watch as well!) 

Until I saw, and thus it was, 

That she was pensive, nor perceived 

Her occupation, nor was grieved 

Nor glad to lose or gain; but still 

Play’d on for hours, as if her will 

Yet bound her to that place, though not 

That hers might be the winning lot. 

Then through my brain the thought did pass 

Even as a flash of lightning there, 

That there was something in her air 

Which would net doom me to despair ; 

And on the thought my words broke forth, 
All incoherent as they were — 

Their eloquence was little worth, 

But yet she listen’d — ’t is enough — 
Who listens once will listen twice ; 
Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, 

And one refusal no rebuff. 


VI. 

6 [ loved, and was beloved again — 
They tell me, Sire, you never knew 
Those gentle frailties ; if ’t is true, 

I shorten all my joy or pain; 

To vou ’t would seem absurd as vain; 

But all men are not born to reign, 

Or o’er their passions, or as you 

Thus o’er themselves and nations too. 

1 am — or rather was — a prince, 

A chief of thousands, and could lead 
Them on where each would foremost bleed ; 
But could not o’er myself evince 


MAZEPPA. 


The like control — But to resume : 
I loved, and was beloved again ; 
In sooth, it is a happy doom, 
But yet where happiest ends in pain. —- 
We met in secret, and the hour 
Which led me to that lady’s bower, 
Was fiery Expectation’s dower. 
My days and nights were nothing — all 
Except that hour, which doth recall 
In the long lapse from youth to age 
No other like itself —I ’d give 
The Ukraine back again to live 
It o'er once more —and be a page, 
The happy page, who was the lord 
Of one soft heart, and his own sword, 
And had no other gem nur wealth 
Save nature’s gift of youth and health. -~ 
We met in secret — doubly sweet, 
Some say, they find it so to meet ; 
I know not that — I would have given 
My life but to have call’d her mine 
In the full view of earth and heaven ; 
For I did oft and long repine 
That we could only meet by stealth. 


Vill. 


“For lovers there are many eyes, 
And such there were on us ; — the devil 
On such occasions should be civil — 
The devil! —I’m loth to do him wrong, 
It might be some untoward saint, 
Who would not be at rest too long, 
But to his pious bile gave vent — 
But one fair night, some lurking spies 
Surprised and seized us both. 
The Count was something more than wroth ---- 
I was unarm’d; but if in steel, 
All cap-a-pie from head to heel, 
What ’gainst their numbers could 1 do? --- 
?T was near his castle, far away 
From city or from succour near, 
And almost on the break of day ; 
I did not think to see another, 
My moments seem’d reduced to few ; 
And with one prayer to Mary Mother, 
And, it may be, a saint or two, 


MAZEPPAe 


As I resign’d me to my fate, 

They led me to the castle gate : 
Theresa’s doom I never knew, 

Our lot was henceforth separate.— 

An angry man, ye may opine, 

Was he, the proud Count Palatine ; 

And he had reason good to be, 
But he was most enraged lest such 
An accident should chance to touch 

Upon his future pedigree ; 

Nor less amazed, that such a blot 

His noble ’scutcheon should have got, 

While he was highest of his line ; 
Because unto himself he seem’d 
The first of men, nor less he deem’d 

In others’ eyes, and most in mine. 

’Sdeath! with a page — perchance a king 

Had reconciled him to the thing ; 

But with a stripling of a page — 

I felt — but cannot paint his rage. 


Ix. 


“ ¢ Bring forth the horse !’— the horse was brought ; 


3 


In truth, he was a noble steed, 

A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 
Who look’d as though the speed of thought 
Were in his limbs ; but he was wild, 

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, 
With spur and bridle undefiled — 

”T was but a day he had been caught ; 
And snorting, with erected mane, 
And struggling fiercely, but in vain, 
In the full foam of wrath and dread 
To me the desert-born was led: 
They bound me on, that menial throng, 
Upon his back with many a thong ; 
Then loosed him with a sudden lash — 
Away !— away !— and on we dash! — 
Torrents less rapid and less rash. 


Xe 
‘© Away ! — away ! — My breath was gone — 
I saw not where he hurried on: 
”"T was scarcely yet the break of day, 
And on he foam’d — away ! — away ! — 


ὧν 


en 
Ε- 
DH 


MAZEPPA. 


The last of human sounds which rose, 

As I was darted from my foes, 

Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 

Which on the wind came roaring after 

A moment from that rabble rout : 

With sudden wrath I wrench’d my head, 
And snapp’d the cord, which to the mane 
Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, 

And, writhing half my form about, 

Howl’d back my curse ; but ’midst the tread, 

The thunder of my courser’s speed, 

Perchance they did not hear nor heed: 

It vexes me — for I would fain 

Have paid their insult back again. 

[ paid it well in after days : 

There is not of that castle gate, 

[15 drawbridge and portcullis’ weight, 

Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left ; 

Nor of its fields a blade of grass, 

Save what grows on a ridge of wall, 
Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall ; 
And many a time ye there might pass, 
Nor dream that e’er that fortress was : 

I saw its turrets in a blaze, 

Their crackling battlements all cleft, 

And the hot lead pour down like rain 
τοι off the scorch’d and blackening roof, 
Whose thickness was not vengeance-proot. 

They little thought that day of pain, 
When launch’d, as on the lightning’s flash, 
They bade me to destruction dash, 

That one day I should come again, 
With twice five thousand horse, to thank 

The Count for his uncourteous ride. 
They play’d me then a bitter prank, 

When, with the wild horse for my guide, 
They bound me to his foaming flank : 

At length I play’d them one as frank — 

For time at last sets all things even — 
And if we do but watch the hour, 

‘There never yet was human power 
Which could evade, if unforgiven, 

The patient search and vigil long 

Of him who treasures up a wrong 


ΜΑΖΕΡΡΑ. 


ΧΙ. 
“ Away, away, my steed and I, 

Upon the pinions of the wind, 

All human dwellings left behind ; 

We sped like meteors through the sky, 
When with its crackling sound the night 

Ts chequer’d with the northern light : 

‘Town — village — none were on our track, 

But a wild plain of far extent, 

And bounded by a forest black : 

And, save the scarce seen battlement, 
On distant heights of some strong hold, 
Against the Tartars built of old, 

No trace of man. ‘The year before 
A Turkish army had march’d o’er ; 
And where the Spahi’s hoof hath trod, 
The verdure flies the bloody sod : — 
The sky was dull, and dim, and gray, 

And a low breeze crept moaning by — 

I could have answer’d with a sigh — 
But fast we fled, away, away — 

And I could neither sigh nor pray ; 
And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
Upon the courser’s bristling mane 5 
But, snorting still with rage and fear, 
He flew upon his far career : 

At times I almost thought, indeed, 

He must have slacken’d in his speed ; 
But no— my bound and slender frame 

Was nothing to his angry might, 
And merely like a spur became : 
Each motion which I made to free 
My swoln limbs from their agony 

Increased his fury and affright : 

I tried my voice, —’t was faint and low 
But yet he swerved as from a blow ; 

And, starting to each accent, sprang 

As from a sudden trumpet’s clang: 
Meantime my cords were wet with gore, 
Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o’er ; 
And in my tongue the thirst became 

A something fierier far than flame. 


519 


5206 MAZEPPA. 


XL 

«We near’d the wild weod —’t was so wide, 
I saw no bounds on either side ; 
°T was studded with old sturdy trees, 
That bent not to the roughest breeze 
Which howls down from Siberia’s waste, 
And strips the forest in its haste, — 
But these were few, and far between, 
Set thick with shrubs more young and green 
CLuxuriant with their annual leaves, 
Ere strown by those autumnal eves 
That nip the forest’s foliage dead, 
Discolour’d with a lifeless red, 
Which stands thereon like stiffen’d gore 
Upon the slain when battle ’s o’er, 
And some long winter’s night hath shed 
Its frost o’er every tombless head, 
So cold and stark the raven’s beak 
May peck unpierced each frozen cheek : 
’T was a wild waste of underwocd, 
And here and there a chestnut stood, 
The strong oak, and the hardy pine ; 

But far apart — and well it were, 
Or else a different lot were mine — 

The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
My limbs; and I found strength to bear 
My wounds, already scarr’d with cold — 
My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 

We rustled through the leaves like wind, 
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind ; 
By night I heard them on the track, 
Their troop came hard upon our back 
Witb their long gallop, which can tire 
The hound’s deep hate, and huriter’s fire 
Where’er we flew they follow’d on, 

Nor left us with the morning sun ; 

Behind 1 saw them, scarce a rood, 

At day-break winding through the wood, 
And through the night had heard their feet 
Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 
‘Oh! how I wish’d for spear or sword 

At least to die amidst the horde, 

And perish -—if it must be so — 

At bay, destroying many a foe. 

When first my courser’s race begun 

I wish’d the goal already won ; 


MAZEPPA. 521 


But now ᾧ doubted strength and speed. 
Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed 
Had nerved him like the mountain-roe ; 
Nor faster falls the blinding snow 
Which whelms the peasant near the door 
Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
Bewilder’d with the dazzling blast, 
Than through the forest-paths he past — 
Untired, untamed, and worse than wild; 
All furious as a favour’d child 

Balk’d of its wish; or fiercer still — 

A woman piqued — who has her will. 


Xill. 

*¢ The wood was past; ’t was more than noon, 
But chill the air, although in June ; 
Or it might be my veins ran cold — 
Prolong’d endurance tames the bold ; 
And I was then not what I seem, 
But headlong as a wintry stream, 
And wore my feelings out before 
I well could count their causes o’er: 
And what with fury, fear, and wrath, 
The tortures which beset my path, 
Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress, 
Thus bound in nature’s nakedness ; 
Sprung from a race whose rising blood 
When stirr’d beyond its calmer mood, 
And trodden hard upon, is like 
The rattle-snake’s, in act to strike, 
What marvel if this worn-out trunk 
Beneath its woes a moment sunk ? 
The earth gave way, the skies roll’d round, 
I seem’d to sink upon the ground ; 
But err’d, for I was fastly bound. 
My heart turn’d sick, my brain grew sore, 
And throbb’d awhile, then beat no more: 
The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; 
I saw the trees like drunkards reel, 
And a slight flash sprang o’er my eyes, 
Which saw no farther: he who dies 
Can die no more than then I died. 
O’ertortured by that ghastly ride, 
I felt the blackness come and go, 

And strove to wake ; but could not make 
My senses climb up fror below : 


en 


by 


MAZEPPA. 


I felt as on a plank at sea, 
When all the waves that dash o’er thee, 
At the same time upheave and whelm, 
And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 
My undulating life was as 
The fancied lights that flitting pass 
Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 
Fever begins upon the brain ; 
But soon it pass’d, with little pain, 

But a confusion worse than such : 

I own that I should deem it much, 
Dying, to feel the same again ; 
And yet I do suppose we must 
Feel far more ere we turn to dust : 
No matter; I have bared my brow | 
Full in Death’s face — before — and now. 


XIV. 

« My thoughts came back ; where was I? Cold, 
And numb, and giddy: pulse by pulse 

Life reassumed its lingering hold, 

And throb by throb: till grown a pang 
Which for a moment would convulse, 
My blood reflow’d, theugh thick and chill ; 

My ear with uncouth noises rang, 

My heart began once more to thrill : 
My sight return’d, though dim; alas! 
And thicken’d, as it were, with glass. 
Methought the dash of waves was nigh ; 
There was a gleam too of the sky, 
Studded with stars ; — it is no dream ; 
The wild horse swims the wilder stream! 
The bright broad river’s gushing tide 
Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 
And we are half-way, struggling o’er 
To yon unknown and silent shore. 

The waters broke my hollow trance, 

And with a temporary strength 
My stiffen’d limbs were re-baptized 

My courser’s broad breast proudly braves, 

And dashes off the ascending waves, 

And onward we advance ! 

We reach the slippery shore at length, 

A haven IJ but little prized, 

For all behind was dark and drear 

And all before was night and fear. 


MAZEPPA. 


How many hours of night or day 
In those suspended pangs I lay, 

{ could not tell; I scarcely knew 
If this were human breath I drew. 


TNs 
« With glossy skin, and dripping mane, 
And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, 
The wild steed’s sinewy nerves still strain 
Up the repelling bank. 
We gain the top: a boundless plain 
Spreads through the shadow of the night, 
And onward, onward, onward, seems, 
Like precipices in our dreams, 
To stretch beyond the sight ; 
And here and there a speck of white, 
Or scatter’d spot of dusky green, 
In masses broke into the light, 
As rose the moon upon my right. 
But nought distinctly seen 
In the dim waste would indicate 
The omen of a cottage gate ; 
Ne twinkling taper from afar 
Stood like a hospitable star ; 
Not even an ignis-fatuus:rose 
To make him merry with my woes : 
That very cheat had cheer’d me then! 
Although detected, welcome still, 
Reminding me, through every ill, 
Of the abodes of men. 


XVI. 
“ Onward we went — but slack and slow; 
His savage force at length o’erspent, 
The drooping courser, faint and low, 
All feebly foaming went. 
A sickly infant had had power 
To guide him forward in that hour ; 
But useless all to me. 
His new-born tameness nought avail’d, 
My limbs were bound ; my force had fail’d, 
Perchance, had they been free. 
With feeble effort still I tried 
To rend the bonds so starkly tied — 
But stil it was in vain; 


523 


MAZEPPA. 


My limbs were only wrung the more, 
And soon the idle strife gave o’er, 
Which but prolong’d their pain: 
The dizzy race seem’d almost done, 
Although no goal was nearly won: 
Some streaks announced the coming sun—- 
How slow, alas! he came ! 
Methought that mist of dawning gray, 
Would never dapple into day ; 
How heavily it roll’d away — 
Before the eastern flame 
Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, 
And ecall’d the radiance from their cars. 
And fill’d the earth, from his deep throne, 
With lonely lustre, ali his own. 


XVII. 

ἐς Up rose the sun; the mists were curl’d 
Back from the solitary world 

Which lay around — behind — before : 
What booted it to traverse 0’er 

Plain, forest, river? Man nor brute, 
Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, 

Lay in the wild luxuriant soil ; 

No sign of travel — none of toil ; 

The very air was mute ; 

And not an insect’s shrill small horn, 
Nor matin bird’s new voice was borne 
From herb nor thicket. Many a werst, 
Panting as if his heart would burst, 
The weary brute still stagger’d on; 
And still we were — or seem’d — alone : 
At length, while reeling on our way, 
Methought i heard a courser neigh, 
From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 

Is it the wind those branches stirs ? 
No, no! from out the forest prance 

A trampling troop; I see them come! 
In one vast squadron they advance ! 

I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 
The steeds rush on in plunging pride: 
But where are they the reins to guide? 
A thousand horse — and none to ride! 
With flowing tail, and flying mane, 

Wide nostrils — never stretch’d by pain, 
Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, 


MAZEPPA. 


And feet that iron never shod, 

And flanks unscarr’d by spur or rod, 

A thousand horse, the wild, the free, 

Like waves that follow o’er the sea, 

Came thickly thundering on, 

As if our faint approach to meet ; 

The sight re-nerved my courser’s feet, 

A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 

A moment, with a faint low neigh, 

He answer’d, and then fell ; 

With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 

And reeking limbs immoveable, 

His first and last career is done ! 

On came the troop — they saw him stoop, 
They saw me strangely bound along 
His back with many a bloody thong : 

They stop — they start — they snuff the air, 

Gallop a moment here and there, 

Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 

Then plunging back with sudden bound, 

Headed by one black mighty steed, 

Who seem’d the patriarch of his breed, 
Without a single speck or hair 

Of white upon his shaggy hide ; 

They snort — they foam — neigh — swerve aside, 

And backward to the forest fly, 

By instinct, from a human eye.— 

They left me there to my despair, 
Link’d to the dead and stiffening wretch, 
Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch. 
Relieved from that unwonted weight, 
From whence I could not extricate 
Nor him nor me — and there we lay 

The dying on the dead! 

I little deem’d another day 
Would see my houseless, helpless head. 


‘«¢ And there from morn till twilight bound, 
I felt the heavy hours toil round, 

With just enough of life to see 

My last of suns go down on me, 

In hopeless certainty of mind, 

That makes us feel at length resign’d 

To that which our foreboding years 
Presents the worst and last of fears 


525 


526 


MAZEPPA. 


Inevitable — even a boon, 
Nor more unkind for coming soor: 


‘Yet shunn’d and dreaded with such care, 


As if it only were a snare 

That prudence might escape : 

At times both wish’d for and implored, 
At times sought with self-pointed sword, 
Yet still a dark and hideous close 

To even intolerable woes, 

And welcome in no shape. 

And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, 
They who have revell’d beyond measure 
In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, 
Die calm, or calmer, oft than he 

Whose heritage was misery : 

For he who hath in turn run through 

All that was beautiful and new, 

Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave ; 
And, save the future, (which is view’d 
Not quite as men are base or good, 

But as their nerves may be endued,) 

With nought perhaps to grieve : — 

The wretch still hopes his woes must end, 
And Death, whom he should deem his friend, 
Appears, to his distemper’d eyes, 

Arrived to rob him of his prize, 

The tree of his new Paradise. 

To-morrow would have given him all, 
Repaid his pangs, repair’d his fall ; 
To-morrow would have been the first 

Of days no more deplored or curst, 

But bright, and long, and beckoning years, 
Seen dazzling through the mist of tears, 
Guerdon of many a painful hour ; 
To-morrow would have given him power 
To rule, to shine, to smite, to save — 
And must it dawn upon his grave ? 


XVIII. 
“ The sun was sinking — still I lay 
Chain’d to the chill and stiffening steed. 
I thought to mingle there our clay ; 
And my dim eyes of death had need, 
No hope arose of being freed : 
I cast my last looks up the sky, 
And there between me and the sun 


eS 


MAZEPPA. 


I saw the expecting raven fly, 
Who scarce would wait till both should die, 
Ere his repast begun ; 
He flew, and perch’d, then flew once more, 
And each time nearer than before ; 
I saw his wing through twilight flit, 
And once so near me he alit 
I could have smote, but lack’d the strength ; 
But the slight motion of my hand, 
And feeble scratching of the sand, 
The exerted throat’s faint struggling noise, 
Which scarcely could be call’d a voice, 
Together scared hin off at length.— 
I know no more — my latest dream 
Is something of a lovely star 
Which fix’d my dull eyes from afar, 
And went and came with wandering beam, 
And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
Sensation of recurring sense, 
And then subsiding back to death, 
And then again a little breath, 
A little thrill, a short suspense, 
An icy sickness curdling o’er 
My heart, and sparks that cross’d my brain — 
A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 
A sigh, and nothing more. 


XIX. 


«© T woke — Where was 1? — Do I see 
A human face look down on me? 
And doth a roof above me close 2 
Do these limbs on a couch repose? 
Is this a chamber where I lie 1 
And is it mortal yon bright eye, 
That watches me with gentle glance ? 
I closed my own again once more, 
As doubtful that the former trance 
Could not as yet be o’er. 
A slender girl, long-hair’d, and tall, 
Sate watching by the cottage wall ; 
The sparkle of her eye I caught. 
Even with my first return of thought; 
For ever and anon she threw 
A prying, pitying glance on me 
With her black eyes so wild and free. 


MAZEPPA, 


I gazed, and gazea, until I knew 
No vision it could be, — 

But that I lived, and was released 

From adding to the vulture’s feast : 

And when the Cossack maid beheld 

My heavy eyes at length unseal’d, 

She smiled — and I essay’d to speak, 
But fail’d — ana she approach’d, and made 
With lip and finger signs that said, 

I must not strive as yet to break 

The silence, till my strength should be 

Enough to leave my accents free ; 

And then her hand on mine she laid, 

And smooth’d the pillow for my head, 

And stole along on tiptoe tread, 

And gently oped the door, and spake 
In whispers —ne’er was voice so sweet! 
Even music follow’d her light feet ; — 

But those she call’d were not awake, 
And she went forth; but, ere she pass’d, 
Another look on me she cast, 

Another sign she made, to say, 

That I had nought to fear, that all 

Were near, at my command or call, 
And she would not delay 

Her due return : — while she was gone, 

Methought I felt too much alone. 


Ὁ τὶ 
“ She came with mother and with sire — 
What need of more ? —I will not tire 
With long recital of the rest, 

Since I became the Cossack’s guest : 
They found me senseless on the plain — 
They bore me to the nearest hut — 

They brought me into life again — 

Me — one day o’er their realm to reign ! 
Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 

His rage, refining on my pain, 

Sent me forth to the wilderness, 

Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, 

To pass the desert to a throne, — 
What mortal his own doom may guess ? — 
Let none despond, let none despair ! 

To-morrow the Borysthenes 

May see our coursers graze at ease 


MAZEPPA. 529 


Upon his ‘Turkish bank, —- and never 
Had I such welcome for a river 
As I shall yield when safely there. 
Comrades, good night !”” — ‘Phe Hetman threw 
His length beneath the oak-tree shade, 
With leafy couch already made, 
A bed nor conifortless nor new 
To him, who took his rest whene’er 
The hour arrived, no matter where : 
His eyes the hastening slumbers steep. 
And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
To thank his tale, he wonder’d not, — 
The king had been an hour asleep. 


END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 


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